





















4 





AMERICANS ALL 


STORIES OF AMERICAN 
LIFE OF TO-DAY 

z' 

EDITED 

BENJAMIN A. HEYDRICK 

Editor “Types of the Short Story,” etc. 



NEW YORK 

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 
1921 







COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC. 


0*1 AD IS 
So D if 4 



THE QUINN ft BODEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY. N. J. 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 


For permission to reprint the stories in this volume, acknowl¬ 
edgement is made to the owners of the copyrights, as follows: 

For “ The Right Promethean Fire,” to Mrs. Atwood R. Martin 
and Doubleday, Page & Company. 

For “ The Land of Heart’s Desire,” to Messrs. Doubleday, Page & 
Company. 

For “ The Tenor,” to Alice I. Bunner and to Charles Scribners’ 
Sons. 

For “ The Passing of Priscilla Winthrop,” to William Allen White 
and The Macmillan Company. 

For “ The Gift of the Magi,” to Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Com¬ 
pany. 

For “The Gold Brick,” copyright 1910, to Brand Whitlock and to 
The Bobbs, Merrill Company. 

For “ His Mother’s Son,” to Edna Ferber and the Frederick A. 
Stokes Company. 

For “ Bitter-Sweet,” to Fannie Hurst and Harper & Brothers. 

For “ The Riverman,” to Stewart Edward White and Doubleday, 
Page & Company. 

For “ Flint and Fire,” to Dorothy Canfield Fisher and Messrs. 
Henry Holt & Company. 

For “ The Ordeal at Mt. Hope,” to Mrs. Alice Dunbar, Mrs. 
Mathilde Dunbar, and Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company. 

For “ Israel Drake,” to Katherine Mayo and Messrs. Houghton 
Mifflin Company. 

For “ The Struggles and Triumph of Isidro,” to James M. 
Hopper. 

For “ The Citizen,” to James F. Dwyer and the Paget Literary 
Agency. 









♦ 





































PREFACE 


In the years before the war, when we had more time for 
light pursuits, a favorite sport of reviewers was to hunt for 
the Great American Novel. They gave tongue here and there, 
and pursued the quarry with great excitement in various direc¬ 
tions, now north, now south, now west, and the inevitable 
disappointment at the end of the chase never deterred them 
from starting off on a fresh scent next day. But in spite of 
all the frenzied pursuit, the game sought, the Great American 
Novel, was never captured. Will it ever be captured? The 
thing they sought was a book that would be so broad, so 
typical, so true that it would stand as the adequate expres¬ 
sion in fiction of American life. Did these tireless hunters 
ever stop to ask themselves, what is the Great French Novel? 
what is the Great English Novel? And if neither of these 
nations has produced a single book which embodies their 
national life, why should we expect that our life, so much more 
diverse in its elements, so multifarious in its aspects, could 
ever be summed up within the covers of a single book? 

Yet while the critics continued their hopeless hunt, there 
was growing up in this country a form of fiction which gave 
promise of some day achieving the task that this never-to-be 
written novel should accomplish. This form was the short 
story. It was the work of many hands, in many places. Each 
writer studied closely a certain locality, and transcribed faith¬ 
fully what he saw. Thus the New England village, the west¬ 
ern ranch, the southern plantation, all had their chroniclers. 
Nor was it or* 2 y various localities that we saw in these one-reel 
pictures; they dealt with typical occupations, there were 
stories of travelling salesmen, stories of lumbermen, stories 
of politicians, stories of the stage, stories of school and college 


vi 


PREFACE 


days. If it were possible to bring together in a single volume 
a group of these, each one reflecting faithfully one facet of 
our many-sided life, would not such a book be a truer picture 
of America than any single novel could present? 

The present volume is an attempt to do this. That it is 
only an attempt, that it does not cover the whole field of our 
national life, no one realizes better than the compiler. The 
title Americans All signifies that the characters in the book 
are all Americans, not that they are all of the Americans. 

This book then differs in its purpose from other collections 
of short stories. It does not aim to present the world’s best 
short stories, nor to illustrate the development of the form 
from Roman times to our own day, nor to show how the tech¬ 
nique of Poe differs from that of Irving: its purpose is none 
of these things, but rather to use the short story as a means 
of interpreting American life. Our country is so vast that 
few of us know more than a small corner of it, and even in 
that corner we do not know all our fellow-citizens; differences 
of color, of race, of creed, of fortune, keep us in separate 
strata. But through books we may learn to know our fellow- 
citizens, and the knowledge will make us better Americans. 

The story by Dorothy Canfield has a unique interest for 
the student, in that it is followed by the author’s own account 
of how it was written, from the first glimpse of the theme to 
the final typing of the story. Teachers who use this book 
for studying the art of short story construction may prefer to 
begin with “ Flint and Fire ” and follow with “ The Citizen,” 
tracing in all the others indications of the authors’ methods. 

Benjamin A. Heydrick. 

New York City, 

March, 1920. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. IN SCHOOL DAYS 

The Right Promethean Fire George Madden Martin 3 
Sketch of George Madden Martin.16 

II. JUST KIDS 

The Land of Heart’s Desire Myra Kelly ... 21 

Sketch of Myra Kelly.37 

III. HERO-WORSHIP 

The Tenor . . . . H. C. Bunner . . 41 

Sketch of H. C. Bunner.54 

IV. SOCIETY IN OUR TOWN 

The Passing of Priscilla 

Winthrop .... William Allen White 59 
Sketch of William Allen White.73 

V. A PAIR OF LOVERS 

The Gift of the Magi . O. Henry ... 79 

Sketch of O. Henry.86 

VI. IN POLITICS 

The Gold Brick . . . Brand Whitlock . . 91 

Sketch of Brand Whitlock.in 

VII. THE TRAVELLING SALESMAN 

His Mother’s Son . . Edna Ferber . .117 

Sketch of Edna Ferber.130 

VIII. AFTER THE BIG STORE CLOSES 

Bitter-Sweet .... Fannie Hurst . . 135 

Sketch of Fannie Hurst.166 

IX. IN THE LUMBER COUNTRY 

The Riverman . . . Stewart Edward White 173 

Sketch of Stewart E. White.185 

X. NEW ENGLAND GRANITE 

Flint and Fire . . . Dorothy Canfield . 191 

How “ Flint aw'd Fire ” 

Started and Grew . . Dorothy Canfield . 210 

Sketch of Dorothy Canfield.221 

XI. DUSKY AMERICANS 

The Ordeal at Mt. Hope Paul Laurence Dunbar 227 

Sketch of Paul Laurence Dunbar.249 

vii 



viii 


CONTENTS 


XII. 

WITH THE POLICE 

Israel Drake .... Katherine Mayo . 
Sketch of Katherine Mayo. 

PAGE 

• 255 

• 273 

XIII. 

IN THE PHILIPPINES 

The Struggles and Triumph 
of Isidro de los Maestros James M. Hopper 
Sketch of James M. Hopper. 

. 279 
. 295 

XIV. 

THEY WHO BRING DREAMS TO AMERICA 
The Citizen .... James F. Dwyer . 
Sketch of James F. Dwyer. 

. 299 
. 318 

XV. 

List of American Short Stories .... 
Classified by locality 

. 321 

XVI. 

Notes and Questions for Study . 

• 325 



IN SCHOOL DAYS 


Are any days more rich in experiences than school days? 
The day one first enters school, whether it is the little red 
schoolhouse or the big brick building that holds a thousand 
pupils,—that day marks the beginning of a new life. One of 
the best records in fiction of the world of the school room is 
called Emmy Lou. In this book George Madden Martin 
has traced the progress of a winsome little maid from the first 
grade to the end of high school. This is the story of the first 
days in the strange new world of the school room. 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


BY 

George Madden Martin 

Emmy Lou, laboriously copying digits, looked up. The boy 
sitting in line in the next row of desks was making signs to 
her. 

She had noticed the little boy before. He was a square little 
boy, with a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of the nose 
and a cheerful breadth of nostril. His teeth were wide apart, 
and his smile was broad and constant. Not that Emmy 
Lou could have told all this. She only knew that to her the 
knowledge of the little boy concerning the things peculiar to 
the Primer World seemed limitless. 

And now the little boy was beckoning Emmy Lou. She did 
not know him, but neither did she know any of the seventy 
other little boys and girls making the Primer Class. 

Because of a popular prejudice against whooping-cough, 
Emmy Lou had not entered the Primer Class until late. When 
she arrived, the seventy little boys and girls were well along 
in Alphabetical lore, having long since passed the a, b, c, 
of initiation, and become glibly eloquent to a point where the 
1 , m, n, o, p slipped off their tongues with the liquid ease of 
repetition and familiarity. 

“ But Emmy Lou can catch up,” said Emmy Lou’s Aunt 
Cordelia, a plump and cheery lady, beaming with optimistic 
placidity upon the infant populace seated in parallel rows at 
desks before her. 

Miss Clara, the teacher, lacked Aunt Cordelia’s optimism, 
also her plumpness. “ No doubt she can,” agreed Miss Clara, 
politely, but without enthusiasm. Miss Clara had stepped 

3 


4 AMERICANS ALL 

from the graduating rostrum to the schoolroom platform, and 
she had been there some years. And when one has been 
there some years, and is already battling with seventy little 
boys and girls, one cannot greet the advent of a seventy-first 
with acclaim. Even the fact that one’s hair is red is not 
an always sure indication that one’s temperament is sanguine 
also. 

So in answer to Aunt Cordelia, Miss Clara replied politely 
but without enthusiasm, “ No doubt she can.” 

Then Aunt Cordelia went, and Miss Clara gave Emmy Lou 
a desk. And Miss Clara then rapping sharply, and calling 
some small delinquent to order, Emmy Lou’s heart sank 
within her. 

Now Miss Clara’s tones were tart because she did not 
know what to do with this late comer. In a class of seventy, 
spare time is not offering for the bringing up of the back¬ 
ward. The way of the Primer teacher was not made easy 
in a public school of twenty-five years ago. 

So Miss Clara told the new pupil to copy digits. 

Now what digits were, Emmy Lou had no idea, but being 
shown them on the black-board, she copied them diligently. 
And as the time went on, Emmy Lou went on copying digits. 
And her one endeavor being to avoid the notice of Miss 
Clara, it happened the needs of Emmy Lou were frequently 
lost sight of in the more assertive claims of the seventy. 

Emmy Lou was not catching up, and it was January. 

But to-day was to be different. The little boy was nodding 
and beckoning. So far the seventy had left Emmy Lou alone. 
As a general thing the herd crowds toward the leaders, and 
the laggard brings up the rear alone. 

But to-day the little boy was beckoning. Emmy Lou looked 
up. Emmy Lou was pink-cheeked and chubby and in her heart 
there was no guile. There was an ease and swagger about 
the little boy. And he always knew when to stand up, and 
what for. Emmy Lou more than once had failed to stand up,. 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


5 

and Miss Clara’s reminder had been sharp. It was when a bell 
rang one must stand up. But what for, Emmy Lou never 
knew, until after the others began to do it. 

But the little boy always knew. Emmy Lou had heard him, 
too, out on the bench glibly tell Miss Clara about the mat, and 
a bat, and a black rat. To-day he stood forth with confidence 
and told about a fat hen. Emmy Lou was glad to have the 
little boy beckon her. 

And in her heart there was no guile. That the little boy 
should be holding out an end of a severed india-rubber band 
and inviting her to take it, was no stranger than other things 
happening in the Primer World every day. 

The very manner of the infant classification breathed mys¬ 
tery, the sheep from the goats, so to speak, the little girls all 
one side the central aisle, the little boys all the other—and to 
over-step the line of demarcation a thing too dreadful to 
contemplate. 

Many things were strange. That one must get up sud¬ 
denly when a bell rang, was strange. 

And to copy digits until one’s chubby fingers, tightly grip¬ 
ping the pencil, ached, and then to be expected to take a 
sponge and wash those digits off, was strange. 

And to be told crossly to sit down was bewildering, 
when in answer to c, a, t, one said “ Pussy.” And yet there 
was Pussy washing her face, on the chart, and Miss Clara’s 
pointer pointing to her. 

So when the little boy held out the rubber band across the 
aisle, Emmy Lou took the proffered end. 

At this the little boy slid back into his desk holding to 
his end. At the critical moment of elongation the little boy let 
go. And the property of elasticity is to rebound. 

Emmy Lou’s heart stood still. Then it swelled. But in 
her filling eyes there was no suspicion, only hurt. And even 
while a tear splashed down, and falling upon the laboriously 
copied digits, wrought havoc, she smiled bravely across at 


6 


AMERICANS ALL 


the little boy. It would have made the little boy feel bad 
to know how it hurt. So Emmy Lou winked bravely and 
smiled. 

Whereupon the little boy wheeled about suddenly and fell 
to copying digits furiously. Nor did he look Emmy Lou’s way, 
only drove his pencil into his slate with a fervor that made 
Miss Clara rap sharply on her desk. 

Emmy Lou wondered if the little boy was mad. One 
would think it had stung the little boy and not her. But since 
he was not looking, she felt free to let her little fist seek her 
mouth for comfort. 

Nor did Emmy Lou dream, that across the aisle, remorse was 
eating into a little boy’s soul. Or that, along with remorse 
there went the image of one Emmy Lou, defenceless, pink¬ 
cheeked, and smiling bravely. 

The next morning Emmy Lou was early. She was always 
early. Since entering the Primer Class, breakfast had lost its 
savor to Emmy Lou in the terror of being late. 

But this morning the little boy was there before her. 
Hitherto his tardy and clattering arrival had been a daily hap¬ 
pening, provocative of accents sharp and energetic from Miss 
Clara. 

But this morning he was at his desk copying from his 
Primer on to his slate. The easy, ostentatious way in which he 
glanced from slate to book was not lost upon Emmy Lou, 
who lost her place whenever her eyes left the rows of digits 
upon the blackboard. 

Emmy Lou watched the performance. And the little boy’s 
pencil drove with furious ease and its path was marked with 
flourishes. Emmy Lou never dreamed that it was because 
she was watching that the little boy was moved to this bril¬ 
liant exhibition. Presently reaching the end of his page, he 
looked up, carelessly, incidentally. It seemed to be borne to 
him that Emmy Lou was there, whereupon he nodded. Then, 
as if moved by sudden impulse, he dived into his desk, and 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


7 

after ostentatious search in, on, under it, brought forth a 
pencil, and held it up for Emmy Lou to see. Nor did she 
dream that it was for this the little boy had been there since 
before Uncle Michael had unlocked the Primer door. 

Emmy Lou looked across at the pencil. It was a slate-pencil. 
A fine, long, new slate-pencil grandly encased for half its length 
in gold paper. One bought them at the drug-store across from 
the school, and one paid for them the whole of five cents. 

Just then a bell rang. Emmy Lou got up suddenly. But 
it was the bell for school to take up. So she sat down. She 
was glad Miss Clara yras not yet in her place. 

After the Primer Class had filed in, with panting and 
frosty entrance, the bell rang again. This time it was the 
right bell tapped by Miss Clara, now in her place. So again 
Emmy Lou got up suddenly and by following the little girl 
ahead learned that the bell meant, “ go out to the bench.” 

The Primer Class according to the degree of its infant 
precocity was divided in three sections. Emmy Lou belonged 
to the third section. It was the last section and she was the 
last one in it though she had no idea what a section meant 
nor why she was in it. 

Yesterday the third section had said, over and over, in 
chorus, “ One and one are two, two and two are four,” etc.— 
but to-day they said, “ Two and one are three, two and two are 
four.” 

Emmy Lou wondered, four what? Which put her behind, 
so that when she began again they were saying, “ two and four 
are six.” So now she knew. Four is six. But what is six? 
Emmy Lou did not know. 

When she came back to her desk the pencil was there. The 
fine, new, long slate-pencil encased in gold paper. And the 
little boy was gone. He belonged to the first section, and 
the first section was now on the bench. Emmy Lou leaned 
across and put the pencil back on the little boy’s desk. 

Then she prepared herself to copy digits with her stump of 


8 


AMERICANS ALL 


a pencil. Emmy Lou’s were always stumps. Her pencil had 
a way of rolling off her desk while she was gone, and one pencil 
makes many stumps. The little boy had generally helped her 
pick them up on her return. But strangely, from this time, her 
pencils rolled off no more. 

But when Emmy Lou took up her slate there was a whole 
side filled with digits in soldierly rows across, so her heart 
grew light and free from the weight of digits, and she gave 
her time to the washing of her desk, a thing in which her 
soul revelled, and for which, patterning after her little girl 
neighbors, she kept within that desk a bottle of soapy water 
and rags of gray and unpleasant nature, that never dried, 
because of their frequent using. When Emmy Lou first came 
to school, her cleaning paraphernalia consisted of a sponge 
secured by a string to her slate, which was the badge of the 
new and the unsophisticated comer. Emmy Lou had quickly 
learned that, and no one rejoiced in a fuller assortment of 
soap, bottle, and rags than she, nor did a sponge longer dangle 
from the frame of her slate. 

On coming in from recess this same day, Emmy Lou found 
the pencil on her desk again, the beautiful new pencil in the 
gilded paper. She put it back. 

But when she reached home, the pencil, the beautiful pencil 
that costs all of five cents, was in her companion box along 
with her stumps and her sponge and her grimy little slate 
rags. And about the pencil was wrapped a piece of paper. It 
had the look of the margin of a Primer page. The paper bore 
marks. They were not digits. 

Emmy Lou took the paper to Aunt Cordelia. They were 
at dinner. 

“ Can’t you read it, Emmy Lou? ” asked Aunt Katie, the 
prettiest aunty. 

Emmy Lou shook her head. 

“M spell the letters,” said Aunt Loufse, the youngest 
aunty. 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


9 


But they did not help Emmy Lou one bit. 

Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. “ She doesn’t seem to be 
catching up,” she said. 

“No,” said Aunt Katie. 

“ No,” agreed Aunt Louise. 

“ Nor—on,” said Uncle Charlie, the brother of the aunties, 
lighting up his cigar to go downtown. 

Aunt Cordelia spread the paper out. It bore the words: 

“ It is for you.” 

So Emmy Lou put the pencil away in the companion, and 
tucked it about with the grimy slate rags that no harm might 
befall it. And the next day she took it out and used it. But 
first she looked over at the little boy. The little boy was 
busy. But when she looked up again, he was looking. 

The little boy grew red, and wheeling suddenly, fell to copy¬ 
ing digits furiously. And from that moment on the little boy 
was moved to strange behavior. 

Three times before recess did he, boldly ignoring the pre¬ 
face of upraised hand, swagger up to Miss Clara’s desk. And 
going and coming, the little boy’s boots with copper toes 
and run-down heels marked with thumping emphasis upon the 
echoing boards his processional and recessional. And reach¬ 
ing his desk, the little boy slammed down his slate with clatter¬ 
ing reverberations. 

Emmy Lou watched him uneasily. She was miserable for 
him. She did not know that there are times when the emotions 
are more potent than the subtlest wines. Nor did she know 
that the male of some species is moved thus to exhibition 
of prowess, courage, defiance, for the impressing of the chosen 
female of the species. 

Emmy Lou merely knew that she was miserable and that 
she trembled for the little boy. 

Having clattered his slate until Miss Clara rapped sharply, 
the little boy rose and went swaggering on an excursion around 
the room to where sat the bucket and dipper. And on his 


10 AMERICANS ALL 

return he came up the center aisle between the sheep and the 
goats. 

Emmy Lou had no idea what happened. It took place be¬ 
hind her. But there was another little girl who did. A little 
girl who boasted curls, yellow curls in tiered rows about her 
head. A lachrymosal little girl, who affected great horror of 
the little boys. 

And what Emmy Lou failed to see was this: the little 
boy, in passing, deftly lifted a cherished curl between finger 
and thumb and proceeded on his way. 

The little girl did not fail the little boy. In the suddenness 
of the surprise she surprised even him by her outcry. Miss 
Clara jumped. Emmy Lou jumped. And the sixty-nine 
jumped. And, following this, the little girl lifted her voice in 
lachrymal lament. 

Miss Clara sat erect. The Primer Class held its breath. 
It always held its breath when Miss Clara sat erect. Emmy 
Lou held tightly to her desk besides. She wondered what it 
was all about. 

Then Miss Clara spoke. Her accents cut the silence. 

“ Billy Traver! ” 

Billy Traver stood forth. It was the little boy. 

“ Since you seem pleased to occupy yourself with the little 
girls, Billy, go to the pegs!” 

Emmy Lou trembled. “ Go to the pegs! ” What unknown, 
inquisitorial terrors lay behind those dread, laconic words, 
Emmy Lou knew not. 

She could only sit and watch the little boy turn and stump 
back down the aisle and around the room to where along the 
wall hung rows of feminine apparel. 

Here he stopped and scanned the line. Then he paused 
before a hat. It was a round little hat with silky nap and a 
curling brim. It had rosettes to keep the ears warm and rib¬ 
bon that tied beneath the chin. It was Emmy Lou’s hat. 
Aunt Cordelia had cautioned her to care concerning it. 


II 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 

The little boy took it down. There seemed to be no doubt 
in his mind as to what Miss Clara meant. But then he had 
been in the Primer Class from the beginning. 

Having taken the hat down he proceeded to put it upon 
his own shock head. His face wore its broad and constant 
smile. One would have said the little boy was enjoying the 
affair. As he put the hat on, the sixty-nine laughed. The 
seventieth did not. It was her hat, and besides, she did not 
understand. 

Miss Clara still erect spoke again: “ And now, since you are 
a little girl, get your book, Billy, and move over with the 
girls.” 

Nor did Emmy Lou understand why, when Billy, having 
gathered his belongings together, moved across the aisle and 
sat down with her, the sixty-nine laughed again. Emmy Lou 
did not laugh. She made room for Billy. 

Nor did she understand when Billy treated her to a slow and 
surreptitious wink, his freckled countenance grinning beneath 
the rosetted hat. It never could have occurred to Emmy Lou 
that Billy had laid his cunning plans to this very end. Emmy 
Lou understood nothing of all this. She only pitied Billy. 
And presently, when public attention had become diverted, 
she proffered him the hospitality of a grimy little slate rag. 
When Billy returned the rag there was something in it— 
something wrapped in a beautiful, glazed, shining bronze paper. 
It was a candy kiss. One paid five cents for six of them at 
the drug-store. 

On the road home, Emmy Lou ate the candy. The beauti¬ 
ful, shiny paper she put in her Primer. The slip of paper 
that she found within she carried to Aunt Cordelia. It was 
sticky and it was smeared. But it had reading on it. 

“ But this is printing,” said Aunt Cordelia; “ can’t you read 
it? ” 

Emmy Lou shook her head. 

“Try,” said Aunt Katie. 


12 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ The easy words/’ said Aunt Louise. 

But Emmy Lou, remembering c-a-t, Pussy, shook her head. 
Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. “ She certainly isn’t catch¬ 
ing up,” said Aunt Cordelia. Then she read from the slip of 
paper: 


“Oh, woman, woman, thou wert made 
The peace of Adam to invade ” 


The aunties laughed, but Emmy Lou put it away with the 
glazed paper in her Primer. It meant quite as much to her as 
did the reading in that Primer: Cat, a cat, the cat. The bat, 
the mat, a rat. It was the jingle to both that appealed to 
Emmy Lou. 

About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She 
heard that it was February, and that wonderful things were 
peculiar to the Fourteenth. At recess the little girls locked arms 
and talked Valentines. The echoes reached Emmy Lou. 

The valentine must come from a little boy, or it wasn’t the 
real thing. And to get no valentine was a dreadful—dreadful 
thing. And even the timidest of the sheep began to cast 
eyes across at the goats. 

Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if 
not, how was she to survive the contumely and shame? 

You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was 
on your valentine. To tell even your best and truest little 
girl friend was to prove faithless to the little boy sending 
the valentine. These things reached Emmy Lou. 

Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of 
that, so grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending 
her a valentine. 

And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way 
to school on the Fourteenth Day of February. The drug-store 
window was full of valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the 
street. She did not want to see them. She knew the little 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 13 

girls would ask her if she had gotten a valentine. And 
she would have to say, No. 

She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her foot¬ 
steps as she went to her desk to lay down book and slate before 
taking off her wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of 
the little boy peeped through the crack of the door from 
Miss Clara’s dressing-room. 

Emmy Lou’s hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk 
lay something square and white. It was an envelope. It 
was a beautiful envelope, all over flowers and scrolls. 

Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew 
pink. 

She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had 
reading on it. 

Emmy Lou’s heart sank. She could not read the reading. 
The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid 
her valentine in her book, for since you must not—she would 
never show her valentine—never. 

The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, 
and Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with 
the joy of being able to say it. 

Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her 
Primer, but no one else might see it. 

It rested heavy on Emmy Lou’s heart, however, that there 
was reading on it. She studied it surreptitiously. The reading 
was made up of letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had 
thought about that. She knew some of the letters. She would 
ask someone the letters she did not know by pointing them out 
on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was learning. It was the 
first time since she came to school. 

But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, 
studying the valentine again. 

Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. 
Aunt Cordelia was busy. 

“ What does it read? ” asked Emmy Lou. 


14 


AMERICANS ALL 


Aunt Cordelia listened. 

“ B,” said Emmy Lou, “ and e? ” 

“ 66,” said Aunt Cordelia. 

If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But 
many things were strange. 

Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith. 

After dinner she approached Aunt Katie. 

“What does it read? ” asked Emmy Lou, “ m and y? ” 

“ My,” said Aunt Katie. 

The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, 
and had to copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, 
the house-boy. Tom was out at the gate talking to another 
house-boy. She waited until the other boy was gone. 

“ What does it read? ” asked Emmy Lou, and she told the 
letters off the slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he 
told her. 

Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section 
little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou. 

Now she was alone, so she stopped. 

“ Get any valentines? ” 

“ Yes,” said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the 
little girl’s friendliness, she added, “ It has reading on it.” 

“ Pooh,” said the little girl, “ they all have that. My 
mamma’s been reading the long verses inside to me.” 

“ Can you show them—valentines? ” asked Emmy Lou. 

“ Of course, to grown-up people,” said the little girl. 

The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie 
was there, and the aunties, sitting around, reading. 

“I got a valentine,” said Emmy Lou. 

They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine’s 
Day, and it came to them that if Emmy Lou’s mother had not 
gone away, never to come back, the year before, Valentine’s 
Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed 
the black dress she was wearing because of the mother who 
would never come back, and looked troubled. 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


15 


But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt 
Cordelia’s knee. In the valentine’s center were two hands 
clasping. Emmy Lou’s forefinger pointed to the words be¬ 
neath the clasped hands. 

“ I can read it,” said Emmy Lou. 

They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt 
Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia’s shoulder. 

“ B,” said Emmy Lou, “ e—Be.” 

The aunties nodded. 

“ M,” said Emmy Lou, “ y—my.” 

Emmy Lou did not hesitate. “ V,” said Emmy Lou, “ a, 
1, e, n, t, i, n, e—Valentine. Be my Valentine.” 

“There! ” said Aunt Cordelia. 

“Well! ” said Aunt Katie. 

“At last! ” said Aunt Louise. 

“ H’m! ” said Uncle Charlie. 


GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 


In the South it is not unusual to give boys’ names to girls, 
so it happens that George is the real name of the woman 
who wrote Emmy Lou. George Madden was born in Louis¬ 
ville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. She attended the public 
schools in Louisville, but on account of ill health did not gradu¬ 
ate. She married Atwood R. Martin, and they made their 
home at Anchorage, a suburb of Louisville. Here in an old 
house surrounded by great catalpa trees, with cardinals nest¬ 
ing in their branches, she was recovering from an illness, and 
to pass the time began to write a short story. The title was 
“ How They Missed the Exposition when it was sent away, 
and a check for seventy-five dollars came in payment, she was 
encouraged to go on. Her next work was the series of stories 
entitled Emmy Lou , Her Book and Heart. This at once took 
rank as one of the classics of school-room literature. It had a 
wide popularity in this country, and was translated into French 
and German. One of the pleasant tributes paid to the book 
was a review in a Pittsburgh newspaper which took the form 
of a letter to Emmy Lou. It ran in part as follows: 

Dear Little Emmy Lou: 

I have read your book, Emmy Lou, and am writing this letter to 
tell you how much I love you. In my world of books I know a great 
assembly of lovely ladies, Emmy Lou, crowned with beauty and 
garlanded with grace, that have inspired poets to song and the hearts 
of warriors to battle, but, Emmy Lou, I love you better than them 
all, because you are the dearest little girl I ever met. 

I felt very sorry for you when the little boy in the Primer World, 
who could so glibly tell the teacher all about the mat and the bat 
and the black rat and the fat hen, hurt your chubby fist by snapping 
an india-rubber band. I do not think he atoned quite enough when 
he gave you that fine new long slate pencil, nor when he sent you 
your first valentine. No, he has not atoned quite enough, Emmy 
Lou, but now that you are Miss McLaurin, you will doubtless even 

16 


GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN 


17 

the score by snapping the india-rubber band of your disdain at his 
heart. But only to show him how it stings, and then, of course, 
you’ll make up for the hurt and be his valentine—won’t you, Emmy 
Lou? . . . 

And when, at twelve years, you find yourself dreaming, Emmy 
Lou, and watching the clouds through the schoolroom window, still 
I love you, Emmy Lou, for your conscience, which William told 
about in his essay. You remember, the two girls who met a cow. 

“ Look her right in the face and pretend we aren’t afraid,” said the 
biggest girl. But the littlest girl—that was you—had a conscience. 
41 Won’t it be deceiving the cow?” she wanted to know. Brave, 
honest Emmy Lou! 

Yes, I love you, Emmy Lou, better than all the proud and beaute¬ 
ous heroines in the big grown-up books, because you are so sun¬ 
shiny and trustful, so sweet and brave—because you have a heart 
of gold, Emmy Lou. And I want you to tell George Madden Martin 
how glad I am that she has told us all about you, the dearest little 
girl since Alice dropped down into Wonderland. 

George Seibel. 

The book is more than a delightful piece of fiction. Through 
its faithful study of the development of a child’s mind, and its 
criticism of the methods employed in many schools, it be¬ 
comes a valuable contribution to education. As such it is 
used in the School of Pedagogy of Harvard University. 

George Madden Martin told more about Emmy Lou in a 
second book of stories entitled Emmy Lou’s Road to Grace, 
which relates the little girl’s experience at home and in Sun¬ 
day school. Other works from her pen are: A Warwickshire 
Lad, the story of William Shakespeare’s early life; The House 
of Fulfillment, a novel; Abbie Ann, a story for children; Leti- 
tia; Nursery Corps, U. S. A., a story of a child, also showing 
various aspects of army life; Selina, the story of a young 
girl who has been brought up in luxury, and finds herself 
confronted with the necessity of earning a living without 
any equipment for the task. None of these has equalled the 
success of her first book, but that is one of the few successful 
portrayals of child life in fiction. 




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That part of New York City known as the East Side, the 
region south of Fourteenth Street and east of Broadway, is 
the most densely populated square mile on earth. Its people 
are of all races; Chinatown, Little Hungary and Little Italy 
elbow each other; streets where the signs are in Hebrew charac¬ 
ters, theatres where plays are given in Yiddish, notices in the 
parks in four or five languages, make one rub his eyes and 
wonder if he is not in some foreign land. Into this region 
Myra Kelly went as a teacher in the public school. Her 
pupils were largely Russian Jews, and in a series of delight¬ 
fully humorous stories she has drawn these little citizens to 
the life . 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


BY 

Myra Kelly 

Isaac Borrachsohn, that son of potentates and of Assembly- 
men, had been taken to Central Park by a proud uncle. For 
weeks thereafter he was the favorite bard of the First Reader 
Class and an exceeding great trouble to its sovereign, Miss 
Bailey, who found him now as garrulous as he had once been 
silent. There was no subject in the Course of Study to which 
he could not correlate the wonders of his journey, and Teacher 
asked herself daily and in vain whether it were more peda- 
gogically correct to encourage “ spontaneous self-expression ” 
or to insist upon “ logically essential sequence.” 

But the other members of the class suffered no such un¬ 
certainty. They voted solidly for spontaneity in a self which 
found expression thus: 

“ Und in the Central Park stands a water-lake, und in the 
water-lake stands birds—a big all of birds—und fishes. Und 
sooner you likes you should come over the water-lake you 
calls a bird, und you sets on the bird, und the bird makes go 
his legs, und you comes over the water-lake.” 

“ They could be awful polite birds,” Eva Gonorowsky was 
beginning when Morris interrupted with: 

“ I had once a auntie und she had a bird, a awful polite bird; 
on’y sooner somebody calls him he couldn't to come the while 
he sets in a cage.” 

“ Did he have a rubber neck? ” Isaac inquired, and Morris 
reluctantly admitted that he had not been so blessed. 

“ In the Central Park,” Isaac went on, “ all the birds is got 
rubber necks.” 


21 


22 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ What color from birds be they? ” asked Eva. 

“ All colors. Blue und white und red und yellow.” 

“ Und green,” Patrick Brennan interjected determinedly. 
“ The green ones is the best.” 

“ Did you go once? ” asked Isaac, slightly disconcerted. 

“ Naw, but I know. Me big brother told me.” 

“They could to be stylish birds, too,” said Eva wistfully. 
“ Stylish und polite. From red und green birds is awful 
stylish for hats.” 

“But these birds is big. Awful big! Mans could ride on 
’em und ladies und boys.” 

“ Und little girls, Ikey? Ain’t they fer little girls? ” asked 
the only little girl in the group. And a very small girl she 
was, with a softly gentle voice and darkly gentle eyes fixed 
pleadingly now upon the bard. 

“Yes,” answered Isaac grudgingly; “sooner they sets by 
somebody’s side little girls could to go. But sooner nobody 
holds them by the hand they could to have fraids over the 
rubber-neck-boat-birds und the water-lake, und the fishes.” 

“ What kind from fishes? ” demanded Morris Mogilewsky, 
monitor of Miss Bailey’s gold fish bowl, with professional 
interest. 

“ From gold fishes und red fishes und black fishes ”—Pat¬ 
rick stirred uneasily and Isaac remembered—“ und green 
fishes; the green ones is the biggest; and blue fishes und all 
kinds from fishes. They lives way down in the water the 
while they have fraids over the rubber-neck-boat-birds. Say— 
what you think? Sooner a rubber-neck-boat-bird needs he 
should eat he longs down his neck und eats a from-gold 
fish.” 

“ ’Out fryin’? ” asked Eva, with an incredulous shudder. 

“ Yes, ’out fryin’. Ain’t I told you little girls could to have 
fraids over ’em? Boys could have fraids too,” cried Isaac; 
and then spurred by the calm of his rival, he added: “ The 
rubber-neck-boat-birds they hollers somethin’ fierce.” 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


23 

tl I wouldn’t be afraid of them. Me pop’s a cop,” cried 
Patrick stoutly. “ I’d just as lief set on ’em. I’d like to.” 

“ Ah, but you ain’t seen ’em, und you ain’t heard ’em holler,” 
Isaac retorted. 

“ Well, I’m goin’ to. An’ I’m goin’ to see the lions an’ the 
tigers an’ the el’phants, an’ I’m goin’ to ride on the water-lake.” 

“ Oh, how I likes I should go too! ” Eva broke out. “ O- 
o-oh, how I likes I should look on them things! On’y I don’t 
know do I need a ride on somethings what hollers. I don’t 
know be they fer me.” 

“ Well, I’ll take ye with me if your mother leaves you go,” 
said Patrick grandly. “ An’ ye can hold me hand if ye’re 
scared.” 

“ Me too? ” implored Morris. “ Oh, Patrick, c’n I go too? ” 

“ I guess so,” answered the Leader of the Line graciously. 
But he turned a deaf ear to Isaac Borrachsohn’s implorings 
to be allowed to join the party. Full well did Patrick know 
of the grandeur of Isaac’s holiday attire and the impressionable 
nature of Eva’s soul, and gravely did he fear that his own 
Sunday finery, albeit fashioned from the blue cloth and brass 
buttons of his sire, might be outshone. 

At Eva’s earnest request, Sadie, her cousin, was invited, 
and Morris suggested that the Monitor of the Window Boxes 
should not be slighted by his colleagues of the gold fish and 
the line. So Nathan Spiderwitz was raised to Alpine heights 
of anticipation by visions of a window box “ as big as blocks 
and streets,” where every plant, in contrast to his lanky charges, 
bore innumerable blossoms. Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein 
was unanimously nominated as a member of the expedition; 
by Patrick, because they were neighbors at St. Mary’s Sunday- 
school; by Morris, because they were classmates under the 
same rabbi at the synagogue; by Nathan, because Ignatius 
Aloysius was a member of the “Clinton Street gang”; by 
Sadie, because he had “long pants sailor suit”; by Eva, 
because the others wanted him. 


24 


AMERICANS ALL 


Eva reached home that afternoon tingling with anticipation 
and uncertainty. What if her mother, with one short word, 
should close forever the gates of joy and boat-birds? But 
Mrs. Gonorowsky met her small daughter’s elaborate plea with 
the simple question: 

“ Who pays you the car-fare? ” 

“ Does it need car-fare to go? ” faltered Eva. 

“ Sure does it,” answered her mother. “ I don’t know 
how much, but some it needs. Who pays it? ” 

“Patrick ain’t said.” 

“Well, you should better ask him,” Mrs. Gonorowsky ad¬ 
vised, and, on the next morning, Eva did. She thereby buried 
the leader under the ruins of his fallen castle of clouds, but he 
struggled through them with the suggestion that each of his 
guests should be her, or his, own banker. 

“ But ain’t you got no money ’t all? ” asked the guest of 
honor. 

“ Not a cent,” responded the host. “ But I’ll get it. How 
much have you? ” 

“ A penny. How much do I need? ” 

“ I don’t know. Let’s ask Miss Bailey.” 

School had not yet formally begun and Teacher was reading. 
She was hardly disturbed when the children drove sharp elbows 
into her shoulder and her lap, and she answered Eva’s—“ Miss 
Bailey—oh, Missis Bailey,” with an abstracted—“ Well, 
dear? ” 

“ Missis Bailey, how much money takes car-fare to the 
Central Park? ” 

Still with divided attention, Teacher replied—“ Five cents, 
honey,” and read on, while Patrick called a meeting of his 
forces and made embarrassing explanations with admirable 
tact. 

There ensued weeks of struggle and economy for the ex¬ 
ploring party, to which had been added a chaperon in the 
large and reassuring person of Becky Zalmonowsky, the class 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


25 


idiot. Sadie Gonorowsky’s careful mother had considered Pat¬ 
rick too immature to bear the whole responsibility, and he, 
with a guile which promised well for his future, had complied 
with her desires and preserved his own authority unshaken. 
For Becky, poor child, though twelve years old and of an 
aspect eminently calculated to inspire trust in those who had 
never held speech with her, was a member of the First Reader 
Class only until such time as room could be found for her in 
some of the institutions where such unfortunates are bestowed. 

Slowly and in diverse ways each of the children acquired the 
essential nickel. Some begged, some stole, some gambled, some 
bartered, some earned, but their greatest source of income, 
Miss Bailey, was denied to them. For Patrick knew that she 
would have insisted upon some really efficient guardian from 
a higher class, and he announced with much heat that he would 
not go at all under those circumstances. 

At last the leader was called upon to set the day and ap¬ 
pointed a Saturday in late May. He was disconcerted to find 
that only Ignatius Aloysius would travel on that day. 

“ It’s holidays, all Saturdays,” Morris explained; “und we 
dassent to ride on no cars.” 

“ Why not? ” asked Patrick. 

“ It’s law, the rabbi says,” Nathan supplemented. “ I don’t 
know why is it; on’y rides on holidays ain’t fer us.” 

“ I guess,” Eva sagely surmised; “ I guess rubber-neck-boat- 
birds rides even ain’t fer us on holidays. But I don’t know 
do I need rides on birds what hollers.” 

“ You’ll be all right,” Patrick assured her. “ I’m goin’ to 
let ye hold me hand. If ye can’t go on Saturday, I’ll take ye 
on Sunday—next Sunday. Yous all must meet me here on the 
school steps. Bring yer money and bring yer lunch too. It’s 
a long way and ye’ll be hungry when ye get there. Ye get 
a terrible long ride for five cents.” 

“ Does it take all that to get there? ” asked the practical 
Nathan. “ Then how are we goin’ to get back? ” 


2 6 


AMERICANS ALL 


Poor little poet soul! Celtic and improvident! Patrick’s 
visions had shown him only the triumphant arrival of his 
host and the beatific joy of Eva as she floated by his side on 
the most “ fancy ” of boat-birds. Of the return journey he had 
taken no thought. And so the saving and planning had to be 
done all over again. The struggle for the first nickel had 
been wearing and wearying, but the amassment of the second 
was beyond description difficult. The children were worn 
from long strife and many sacrifices, for the temptations to 
spend six or nine cents are so much more insistent and un¬ 
usual than are yearnings to squander lesser sums. Almost 
daily some member of the band would confess a fall from 
grace and solvency, and almost daily Isaac Borrachsohn was 
called upon to descant anew upon the glories of the Central 
Park. Becky, the chaperon, was the most desultory collector 
of the party. Over and over she reached the proud heights 
of seven or even eight cents, only to lavish her hoard on the 
sticky joys of the candy cart of Isidore Belchatosky’s papa or 
on the suddy charms of a strawberry soda. 

Then tearfully would she repent of her folly, and bitterly 
would the others upbraid her, telling again of the joys and 
wonders she had squandered. Then loudly would she bewail 
her weakness and plead in extenuation: “ I seen the candy. 
Mouses from choc’late und Foxy Gran’pas from sugar—und I 
ain’t never seen no Central Park.” 

“ But don’t you know how Isaac says? ” Eva would urge. 
“ Don’t you know how all things what is nice fer us stands 
in the Central Park? Say, Isaac, you should better tell 
Becky, some more, how the Central Park stands.” 

And Isaac’s tales grew daily more wild and independent of 
fact until the little girls quivered with yearning terror and 
the boys burnished up forgotten cap pistols. He told of lions, 
tigers, elephants, bears, and buffaloes, all of enormous size and 
strength of lung, so that before many days had passed he had 
debarred himself, by whole-hearted lying, from the very pos- 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


27 

sibility of joining the expedition and seeing the disillusionment 
of his public. With true artistic spirit he omitted all mention 
of confining house or cage and bestowed the gift of speech upon 
all the characters, whether brute or human, in his epic. The 
merry-go-round he combined with the menagerie into a whole 
which was not to be resisted. 

“ Und all the am’blins,” he informed his entranced listeners; 
“ they goes around, und around, und around, where music plays 
und flags is. Und I sets a lion und he runs around, und runs 
around, und runs around. Say—what you think? He had 
smiling looks und hair on the neck, und sooner he says like 
that ‘ I’m awful thirsty,’ I gives him a peanut und I gets 
a golden ring.” 

“ Where is it? ” asked the jealous and incredulous Patrick. 

“ To my house.” Isaac valiantly lied, for well he remem¬ 
bered the scene in which his scandalized but sympathetic 
uncle had discovered his attempt to purloin the brass ring 
which, with countless blackened duplicates, is plucked from a 
slot by the brandishing swords of the riders upon the merry-go- 
round. Truly, its possession had won him another ride—this 
time upon an elephant with upturned trunk and wide ears— 
but in his mind the return of that ring still ranked as the 
only grief in an otherwise perfect day. 

Miss Bailey—ably assisted by -Esop, Rudyard Kipling, and 
Thompson Seton—had prepared the First Reader Class to 
accept garrulous and benevolent lions, cows, panthers, and 
elephants, and the exploring party’s absolute credulity encour¬ 
aged Isaac to higher and yet higher flights, until Becky was 
strengthened against temptation. 

At last, on a Sunday in late June, the cavalcade in splendid 
raiment met on the wide steps, boarded a Grand Street car, 
and set out for Paradise. Some confusion occurred at the 
very beginning of things when Becky Zalmonowsky curtly re¬ 
fused to share her pennies with the conductor. When she 
was at last persuaded to yield, an embarrassing five minutes 


28 


AMERICANS ALL 


was consumed in searching for the required amount in the 
nooks and crannies of her costume where, for safe-keeping, 
she had cached her fund. One penny was in her shoe, another 
in her stocking, two in the lining of her hat, and one in the 
large and dilapidated chatelaine bag which dangled at her 
knees. 

Nathan Spiderwitz, who had preserved absolute silence, now 
contributed his fare, moist and warm, from his mouth, and 
Eva turned to him admonishingly. 

“ Ain’t Teacher told you money in the mouth ain’t healthy 
fer you? ” she sternly questioned, and Nathan, when he had 
removed other pennies, was able to answer: 

“ I washed ’em off—first.” And they were indeed most 
brightly clean. “ There’s holes in me these here pockets,” he 
explained, and promptly corked himself anew with currency. 

“ But they don’t tastes nice, do they? ” Morris remon¬ 
strated. Nathan shook a corroborative head. “ Und,” the 
Monitor of the Gold Fish further urged, “ you could to swal¬ 
low ’em und then you couldn’t never to come by your house 
no more.” 

But Nathan was not to be dissuaded, even when the im- 
pressional and experimental Becky tried his storage system 
and suffered keen discomfort before her penny was restored 
to her by a resourceful fellow traveler who thumped her 
right lustily on the back until her crowings ceased and the coin 
was once more in her hand. 

At the meeting of Grand Street with the Bowery, wild con¬ 
fusion was made wilder by the addition of seven small per¬ 
sons armed with transfers and clamoring—all except Nathan— 
for Central Park. Two newsboys and a policeman bestowed 
them upon a Third Avenue car and all went well until Patrick 
missed his lunch and charged Ignatius Aloysius with its ab¬ 
straction. Words ensued which were not easily to be for¬ 
gotten even when the refreshment was found—flat and horribly 
distorted—under the portly frame of the chaperon. 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


29 


Jealousy may have played some part in the misunderstanding, 
for it was undeniable that there was a sprightliness, a joyant 
brightness, in the flowing red scarf on Ignatius Aloysius’s nau¬ 
tical breast, which was nowhere paralleled in Patrick’s more 
subdued array. And the tenth commandment seemed very 
arbitrary to Patrick, the star of St. Mary’s Sunday-school, 
when he saw that the red silk was attracting nearly all the at¬ 
tention of his female contingent. If Eva admired flaunting ties 
it were well that she should say so now. There was yet time 
to spare himself the agony of riding on rubber-neck-boat-birds 
with one whose interest wandered from brass buttons. Darkly 
Patrick scowled upon his unconscious rival, and guilefully he 
remarked to Eva: 

“ Red neckties is nice, don’t you think? ” 

“Awful nice,” Eva agreed; “but they ain’t so stylish like 
high-stiffs. High-stiffs und derbies is awful stylish.” 

Gloom and darkness vanished from the heart and countenance 
of the Knight of Munster, for around his neck he wore, with 
suppressed agony, the highest and stiffest of “ high-stiffs ” 
and his brows—and the back of his neck—were encircled by 
his big brother’s work-a-day derby. Again he saw and des¬ 
cribed to Eva the vision which had lived in his hopes for 
now so many weeks: against a background of teeming jungle, 
mysterious and alive with wild beasts, an amiable boat-bird 
floated on the water-lake: and upon the boat-bird, trembling 
but reassured, sat Eva Gonorowsky, hand in hand with her 
brass-buttoned protector. 

As the car sped up the Bowery the children felt that they 
were indeed adventurers. The clattering Elevated trains 
overhead, the crowds of brightly decked Sunday strollers, the 
clanging trolley cars, and the glimpses they caught of shining 
green as they passed the streets leading to the smaller squares 
and parks, all contributed to the holiday upliftedness which 
swelled their unaccustomed hearts. At each vista of green they 
made ready to disembark and were restrained only by the 


3 o AMERICANS ALL 

conductor and by the sage counsel of Eva, who reminded her 
impulsive companions that the Central Park could be readily 
identified by “ the hollers from all those things what hollers.” 
And so, in happy watching and calm trust of the conductor, 
they were borne far beyond 59 ^ Street, the first and most 
popular entrance to the park, before an interested passenger 
came to their rescue. They tumbled off the car and pressed 
towards the green only to find themselves shut out by a high 
stone wall, against which they crouched and listened in vain 
for identifying hollers. The silence began to frighten them, 
when suddenly the quiet air was shattered by a shriek which 
would have done credit to the biggest of boat-birds or of lions, 
but which was—the children discovered after a moment’s 
panic—only the prelude to an outburst of grief on the chap¬ 
eron’s part. When the inarticulate stage of her sorrow was 
passed, she demanded instant speech with her mamma. She 
would seem to have expressed a sentiment common to the ma¬ 
jority, for three heads in Spring finery leaned dejectedly against 
the stone barrier while Nathan removed his car-fare to con¬ 
tribute the remark that he was growing hungry. Patrick was 
forced to seek aid in the passing crowd on Fifth Avenue, 
and in response to his pleading eyes and the depression of his 
party, a lady of gentle aspect and “ kind looks ” stopped and 
spoke to them. 

“ Indeed, yes,” she reassured them; “ this is Central Park.” 

“ It has looks off the country,” Eva commented. 

“ Because it is a piece of the country,” the lady explained. 

“ Then we dassent to go, the while we ain’t none of us got 
no sickness,” cried Eva forlornly. “We’re all, all healthy, 
und the country is for sick childrens.” 

“ I am glad you are well,” said the lady kindly; “but you 
may certainly play in the park. It is meant for all little child¬ 
ren. The gate is near. Just walk on near this wall until 
you come to it.” 

It was only a few blocks, and they were soon in the land 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


3i 


of their hearts’ desire, where were waving trees and flowering 
shrubs and smoothly sloping lawns, and, framed in all these 
wonders, a beautiful little water-lake all dotted and brightened 
by fleets of tiny boats. The pilgrims from the East Side stood 
for a moment at gaze and then bore down upon the jewel, 
straight over grass and border, which is a course not lightly 
to be followed within park precincts and in view of park police¬ 
men. The ensuing reprimand dashed their spirits not at all 
and they were soon assembled close to the margin of the lake, 
where they got entangled in guiding strings and drew to shore 
many a craft, to the disgust of many a small owner. Becky 
Zalmonowsky stood so closely over the lake that she shed the 
chatelaine bag into its shallow depths and did irreparable 
damage to her gala costume in her attempts to “ dibble ” for her 
property. It was at last recovered, no wetter than the toilette 
it was intended to adorn, and the cousins Gonorowsky had 
much difficulty in balking Becky’s determination to remove 
her gown and dry it then and there. 

Then Ignatius Aloysius, the exacting, remembered garrulously 
that he had as yet seen nothing of the rubber-neck-boat-birds 
and suggested that they were even now graciously “ hollering 
like an’thing ” in some remote fastness of the park. So Patrick 
gave commands and the march was resumed with bliss now 
beaming on all the faces so lately clouded. Every turn of the 
endless walks brought new wonders to these little ones who 
were gazing for the first time upon the great world of growing 
things of which Miss Bailey had so often told them. The 
policeman’s warning had been explicit and they followed de¬ 
corously in the paths and picked none of the flowers which 
as Eva had heard of old, were sticking right up out of the 
ground. But other flowers there were dangling high or low on 
tree or shrub, while here and there across the grass a bird came 
hopping or a squirrel ran. But the pilgrims never swerved. 
Full well they knew that these delights were not for such as 
they. 


32 


AMERICANS ALL 


It was, therefore, with surprise and concern that they at last 
debouched upon a wide green space where a flag waved at the 
top of a towering pole; for, behold, the grass was covered thick 
with children, with here and there a beneficent policeman 
looking serenely on. 

“ Dast we walk on it? ” cried Morris. “ Oh, Patrick, dast 
we? ” 

“ Ask the cop,” Nathan suggested. It was his first speech 
for an hour, for Becky’s misadventure with the chatelaine bag 
and the water-lake had made him more than ever sure that 
his own method of safe-keeping was the best. 

“ Ask him yerself,” retorted Patrick. He had quite intended 
to accost a large policeman, who would of course recognize and 
revere the buttons of Mr. Brennan pere, but a commander 
cannot well accept the advice of his subordinates. But Nathan 
was once more beyond the power of speech, and it was Morris 
Mogilewsky who asked for and obtained permission to walk 
on God’s green earth. With little spurts of running and 
tentative jumps to test its spring, they crossed Peacock Lawn 
to the grateful shade of the trees at its further edge and there 
disposed themselves upon the ground and ate their luncheon. 
Nathan Spiderwitz waited until Sadie had finished and then 
entrusted the five gleaming pennies to her care while he wildly 
bolted an appetizing combination of dark brown bread and un-* 
cooked eel. 

Becky reposed flat upon the chatelaine bag and waved her 
still damp shoes exultantly. Eva lay, face downward beside her, 
and peered wonderingly deep into the roots of things. 

“Don’t it smells nice!” she gloated. “Don’t it looks 
nice! My, ain’t we havin’ the party-time! ” 

“ Don’t mention it,” said Patrick, in careful imitation of 
his mother’s hostess manner. “I’m pleased to see you, I’m 
sure.” 

“ The Central Park is awful pretty,” Sadie soliloquized as 
she lay on her back and watched the waving branches and 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


33 

blue sky far above. “ Awful pretty! I likes we should live 
here all the time.” 

“ Well,” began Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein, in slight 
disparagement of his rival’s powers as a cicerone; “well, I 
ain’t seen no lions, nor no rubber-neck-boat-birds. Und we ain’t 
had no rides on nothings. Und I ain’t heard no hollers 
neither.” 

As if in answer to this criticism there arose, upon the road 
beyond the trees, a snorting, panting noise, growing moment¬ 
arily louder and culminating, just as East Side nerves were 
strained to breaking point, in a long hoarse and terrifying yell. 
There was a flash of red, a cloud of dust, three other toots of 
agony, and the thing was gone. Gone, too, were the explorers 
and gone their peaceful rest. To a distant end of the field they 
flew, led by the panic-stricken chaperon, and followed by Eva 
and Patrick, hand in hand, he making show of bravery he 
was far from feeling, and she frankly terrified. In a secluded 
corner, near the restaurant, the chaperon was run to earth by 
her breathless charges: 

“ I seen the lion,” she panted over and over. “ I seen the 
fierce, big red lion, und I don’t know where is my mamma.” 

Patrick saw that one of the attractions had failed to 
attract, so he tried another. 

“ Le’s go an’ see the cows,” he proposed. “ Don’t you know 
the po’try piece Miss Bailey learned us about cows? ” 

Again the emotional chaperon interrupted. “I’m loving 
much mit Miss Bailey, too,” she wailed. “ Und I don’t know 
where is she neither.” But the pride of learning upheld the 
others and they chanted in sing-song chorus, swaying rhythmi¬ 
cally the while from leg to leg: 


“ The friendly cow all red and white, 

I love with all my heart: 

She gives me cream with all her might, 

To eat with apple-tart Robert Louis Stevenson.” 


34 AMERICANS ALL 

Becky’s tears ceased. “ Be there cows in the Central Park? ” 
she demanded. 

“ Sure/’ said Patrick. 

“ Und what kind from cream will he give us? Ice cream? ” 

“ Sure,” said Patrick again. 

“ Let’s go,” cried the emotional chaperon. A passing 
stranger turned the band in the general direction of the menag¬ 
erie and the reality of the cow brought the whole “ memory 
gem ” into strange and undreamed reality. 

Gaily they set out through new and always beautiful ways; 
through tunnels where feet and voices rang with ghostly boom- 
ings most pleasant to the ear; over bridges whence they saw—in 
partial proof of Isaac Borrachsohn’s veracity—“ mans und 
ladies ridin’.” Of a surety they rode nothing more exciting 
than horses, but that was, to East Side eyes, an unaccustomed 
sight, and Eva opined that it was owing, probably, to the 
shortness of their watch that they saw no lions and tigers 
similarly amiable. The cows, too, seemed far to seek, but the 
trees and grass and flowers were everywhere. Through long 
stretches of “ for sure country ” they picked their way, until 
they came, hot but happy, to a green and shady summer¬ 
house on a hill. There they halted to rest, and there Ignatius 
Aloysius, with questionable delicacy, began to insist once more 
upon the full measure of his bond. 

“We ain’t seen the rubber-neck-boat-birds,” he complained. 
“ Und we ain’t had no rides on nothings.” 

“ You don’t know what is polite,” cried Eva, greatly shocked 
at this carping spirit in the presence of a hard-worked host. 
“ You could to think shame over how you says somethings like 
that on a party.” 

“ This ain’t no party,” Ignatius Aloysius retorted. “ It’s a 
’scursion. To a party somebody gives you what you should 
eat; to a ’scursion you brings it. Und anyway, we ain’t had 
no rides.” 

“ But we heard a holler,” the guest of honor reminded him. 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


35 

“We heard a fierce, big holler from a lion. I don’t know 
do I need a ride on something what hollers. I could to have 
a fraid maybe.” 

“ Ye wouldn’t be afraid on the boats when I hold yer hand, 
would ye? ” Patrick anxiously inquired, and Eva shyly ad¬ 
mitted that, thus supported, she might not be dismayed. To 
work off the pride and joy caused by this avowal, Patrick 
mounted the broad seat extending all around the summer¬ 
house and began to walk clatteringly upon it. The other 
pilgrims followed suit and the whole party stamped and 
danced with infinite enjoyment. Suddenly the leader halted 
with a loud cry of triumph and pointed grandly out through 
one of the wistaria-hung openings. Not De Soto on the banks 
of the Mississippi nor Balboa above the Pacific could have felt 
more victorious than Patrick did as he announced: 

“There’s the water-lake!” 

His followers closed in upon him so impetuously that he 
was borne down under their charge and fell ignominiously out 
on the grass. But he was hardly missed, he had served his pur¬ 
pose. For there, beyond the rocks and lawns and red japonicas, 
lay the blue and shining water-lake in its confining banks 
of green. And upon its softly quivering surface floated the 
rubber-neck-boat-birds, white and sweetly silent instead of 
red and screaming—and the superlative length and arched 
beauty of their necks surpassed the wildest of Ikey Borrach- 
sohn’s descriptions. And relying upon the strength and polite¬ 
ness of these wondrous birds there were indeed “ mans und 
ladies und boys und little girls ” embarking, disembarking, and 
placidly weaving in and out and round about through scenes of 
hidden but undoubted beauty. 

Over rocks and grass the army charged towards bliss un¬ 
utterable, strewing their path with overturned and howling 
babies of prosperity who, clumsy from many nurses and much 
pampering, failed to make way. Past all barriers, accidental 
or official, they pressed, nor halted to draw rein or breath until 


36 AMERICANS ALL 

they were established, beatified, upon the waiting swan-boat. 

Three minutes later they were standing outside the railings 
of the landing and regarding, through welling tears, the placid 
lake, the sunny slopes of grass and tree, the brilliant sky and 
the gleaming rubber-neck-boat-bird which, as Ikey described, 
“ made go its legs,” but only, as he had omitted to mention, 
for money. So there they stood, seven sorrowful little figures 
engulfed in the rayless despair of childhood and the bitter¬ 
ness of poverty. For these were the children of the poor, 
and full well they knew that money was not to be diverted 
from its mission: that car-fare could not be squandered on 
bliss. 

Becky’s woe was so strong and loud that the bitter wailings 
of the others served merely as its background. But Patrick 
cared not at all for the general despair. His remorseful eyes 
never strayed from the bowed figure of Eva Gonorowsky, for 
whose pleasure and honor he had striven so long and vainly. 
Slowly she conquered her sobs, slowly she raised her daisy¬ 
decked head, deliberately she blew her small pink nose, softly 
she approached her conquered knight, gently and all untruth¬ 
fully she faltered, with yearning eyes on the majestic sw T ans: 

“ Don’t you have no sad feelings, Patrick. I ain’t got none. 
Ain’t I told you from long, how I don’t need no rubber-neck- 
boat-bird rides? I don’t need ’em! I don’t need ’em! I 
with a sob of passionate longing—“ I’m got all times a awful 
scare over ’em. Let’s go home, Patrick. Becky needs she 
should see her mamma, und I guess I needs my mamma too.” 


MYRA KELLY 


Is it necessary to say that she was Irish? The humor, the 
sympathy, the quick understanding, the tenderness, that play 
through all her stories are the birthright of the children of 
Erin. Myra Kelly was born in Dublin, Ireland. Her father 
was Dr. John E. Kelly, a well-known surgeon. When Myra 
was little more than a baby, the family came to New York 
City. Here she was educated at the Horace Mann High 
School, and afterwards at Teachers College, a department of 
Columbia University, New York. She graduated from 
Teachers College in 1899. Her first school was in the primary 
department of Public School 147, on East Broadway, New 
York, where she taught from 1899 to 1901. Here she met 
all the “ little aliens,” the Morris and Isidore, Yetta and Eva of 
her stories, and won her way into their hearts. To her friends 
she would sometimes tell of these children, with their odd ideas 
of life and their dialect. “ Why don’t you write these stories 
down? ” they asked her, and at last she sat down and wrote 
her first story, “ A Christmas Present for a Lady.” She had no 
knowledge of editorial methods, so she made four copies of the 
story and sent them to four different magazines. Two of them 
returned the story, and two of them accepted it, much to her 
embarrassment. The two acceptances came from McClure’s 
Magazine and The Century. As McClure’s replied first she 
gave the story to them, and most of her other stories were 
first published in that magazine. 

When they appeared in book form, they were welcomed by 
readers all over the country. Even the President of the United 
States wrote to express his thanks to her, in the following 
letter: 


37 


3« 


AMERICANS ALL 


Oyster Bay, N. Y. 

July, 26, 1905. 

Mly dear Miss Kelly 

Mrs. Roosevelt and I and most of the children know your very 
amusing and very pathetic accounts of East Side school children 
almost by heart, and I really think you must let me write and 
thank you for them. When I was Police Commissioner I quite 
often went to the Houston Street public school, and was immensely 
impressed by what I saw there. I thought there were a good many 
Miss Baileys there, and the work they were doing among their 
scholars (who were largely of Russian-Jewish parentage like the 
children you write of) was very much like what your Miss Bailey 
has done. 

Very sincerely yours, 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

After two years of school room work, Miss Kelly’s health 
broke down, and she retired from teaching, although she served 
as critic teacher in the Speyer School, Teachers College, for 
a year longer. One of the persons who had read her books 
with delight was Allen Macnaughton. Soon after he met 
Miss Kelly, and in 1905 they were married. They lived for 
a time at Oldchester Village, New Jersey, in the Orange moun¬ 
tains, in a colony of literary people which her husband was 
interested in establishing. After several years of very success¬ 
ful literary work, she developed tuberculosis. She went to 
Torquay, England, in search of health, and died there March 
31, 1910. 

Her works include the following titles: Little Citizens; The 
Isle of Dreams; Wards of Liberty; Rosnah; the Golden Sea¬ 
son; Little Aliens; New Faces. One of the leading magazines 
speaks of her as the creator of a new dialect. 


HERO WORSHIP 


Most of us are hero-worshippers at some time of our lives. 
The boy finds his hero in the baseball player or athlete, the 
girl in the matinee idol, or the “movie” star. These objects 
of worship are not always worthy of the adoration they in¬ 
spire, but this does not matter greatly, since their worshippers 
seldom find it out. There is something fine in absolute loyalty 
to an ideal, even if the ideal is far from reality. “ The Tenor ” 
is the story of a famous singer and two of his devoted ad¬ 
mirers. 


THE TENOR * 


BY 

H. C. Bunner 

It was a dim, quiet room in an old-fashioned New York 
house, with windows opening upon a garden that was trim and 
attractive, even in its wintry days—for the rose-bushes 
were all bundled up in straw ulsters. The room was ample, 
yet it had a cosy air. Its dark hangings suggested comfort 
and luxury, with no hint of gloom. A hundred pretty trifles 
told that it was a young girl’s room: in the deep alcove nestled 
her dainty white bed, draped with creamy lace and ribbons. 

“ I was so afraid that I’d be late! ” 

The door opened, and two pretty girls came in, one in hat 
and furs, the other in a modest house dress. The girl in the 
furs, who had been afraid that she would be late, was fair, 
with a bright color in her cheeks, and an eager, intent look 
in her clear brown eyes. The other girl was dark-eyed and 
dark-haired, dreamy, with a soft, warm dusky color in her 
face. They were two very pretty girls indeed—or, rather, two 
girls about to be very pretty, for neither one was eighteen years 
old. 

The dark girl glanced at a little porcelain clock. 

“ You are in time, dear,” she said, and helped her com¬ 
panion to take off her wraps. 

Then the two girls crossed the room, and with a caressing 
and almost a reverent touch, the dark girl opened the doors 
of a little carven cabinet that hung upon the wall, above a 

* From “ Stories of H. C. Bunner,” copyright, 1890, 1896, by 
Alice L. Bunner; published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. By per¬ 
mission of the publishers. 


4i 


42 


AMERICANS ALL 


small table covered with a delicate white cloth. In its 
depths, framed in a mat of odorous double violets, stood the 
photograph of the face of a handsome man of forty—a face 
crowned with clustering black locks, from beneath which a 
pair of large, mournful eyes looked out with something like 
religious fervor in their rapt gaze. It was the face of a 
foreigner. 

“O Esther! ” cried the other girl, “ how beautifully you 
have dressed him to-day! ” 

“ I wanted to get more/' Esther said; “but I’ve spent 
almost all my allowance—and violets do cost so shockingly. 
Come, now—” with another glance at the clock—“ don’t let’s 
lose any more time, Louise dear.” 

She brought a couple of tiny candles in Sevres candlesticks, 
and two little silver saucers, in which she lit fragrant pastilles. 
As the pale gray smoke arose, floating in faint wreaths and 
spirals before the enshrined photograph, Louise sat down and 
gazed intently upon the little altar. Esther went to her piano 
and watched the clock. It struck two. Her hands fell softly 
on the keys, and, studying a printed program in front of 
her, she began to play an overture. After the overture she 
played one or two pieces of the regular concert stock. Then she 
paused. 

“ I can’t play the Tschaikowski piece.” 

“ Never mind,” said the other. “ Let us wait for him in 
silence.” 

The hands of the clock pointed to 2:29. Each girl drew 
a quick breath, and then the one at the piano began to sing 
softly, almost inaudibly, “ les Rameaux ” in a transcription 
for tenor of Faure’s great song. When it was ended, she played 
and sang the encore. Then, with her fingers touching the 
keys so softly that they awakened only an echo-like sound, 
she ran over the numbers that intervened between the first 
tenor solo and the second. Then she sang again, as softly as 
before. 


THE TENOR 


43 


The fair-haired girl sat by the little table, gazing intently on 
the picture. Her great eyes seemed to devour it, and yet there 
was something absent-minded, speculative, in her steady look. 
She did not speak until Esther played the last number on the 
program. 

“ He had three encores for that last Saturday,” she said, and 
Esther played the three encores. 

Then they closed the piano and the little cabinet, and ex¬ 
changed an innocent girlish kiss, and Louise went out, and 
found her father’s coupe waiting for her, and was driven away 
to her great, gloomy, brown-stone home near Central Park. 

Louise Laura Latimer and Esther Van Guilder were the 
only children of two families which, though they were possessed 
of the three “ Rs ” which are all and more than are needed to 
insure admission to New York society—Riches, Respectability 
and Religion—yet were not in Society; or, at least, in the 
society that calls itself Society. This was not because Society 
was not willing to have them. It was because they thought the 
world too worldly. Perhaps this was one reason—although the 
social horizon of the two families had expanded somewhat as 
the girls grew up—why Louise and Esther, who had been play¬ 
mates from their nursery days, and had grown up to be two 
uncommonly sentimental, fanciful, enthusiastically morbid girls, 
were to be found spending a bright Winter afternoon holding 
a ceremonial service of worship before the photograph of a 
fashionable French tenor. 

It happened to be a French tenor whom they were wor¬ 
shiping. It might as well have been anybody or any thing else. 
They were both at that period of girlish growth when the 
young female bosom is torn by a hysterical craving to worship 
something—any thing. They had been studying music and 
they had selected the tenor who was the sensation of the 
hour in New York for their idol. They had heard him only 
on the concert stage; they were never likely to see him nearer. 
But it was a mere matter of chance that the idol was not a 


44 


AMERICANS ALL 


Boston Transcendentalism a Popular Preacher, a Faith-Cure 
Healer, or a ringleted old maid with advanced ideas of Woman’s 
Mission. The ceremonies might have been different in form: 
the worship would have been the same. 

M. Hyppolite Remy was certainly the musical hero of the 
hour. When his advance notices first appeared, the New York 
critics, who are a singularly unconfiding, incredulous lot, were 
inclined to discount his European reputation. 

When they learned that M. Remy was not only a great 
artist, but a man whose character was “ wholly free from that 
deplorable laxity which is so often a blot on the proud escut¬ 
cheon of his noble profession;” that he had married an Ameri¬ 
can lady; that he had “ embraced the Protestant religion ”— 
no sect was specified, possibly to avoid jealousy—and that 
his health was delicate, they were moved to suspect that he 
might have to ask that allowances be made for his singing. 
But when he arrived, his triumph was complete. He was as 
handsome as his picture, if he was a trifle short, a shade too 
stout. 

He was a singer of genius, too; with a splendid voice and 
a sound method—on the whole. It was before the days of the 
Wagner autocracy, and perhaps his tremolo passed unchallenged 
as it could not now; but he was a great artist. He knew his 
business as well as his advance-agent knew his. The Remy 
Concerts were a splendid success. Reserved seats, $5. For 
the Series of Six, $25. 

On the following Monday, Esther Van Guilder returned 
her friend’s call, in response to an urgent invitation, despatched 
by mail. Louise Latimer’s great bare room was incapable of 
transmutation into a cosy nest of a boudoir. There was too 
much of its heavy raw silk furniture—too much of its vast, 
sarcophagus-like bed—too much of its upholsterer’s elegance, 
regardless of cost—and taste. An enlargement from an am- 
brotype of the original Latimer, as he arrived in New York 


THE TENOR 


45 


from New Hampshire, and a photograph of a “ child subject ” 
by Millais, were all her works of art. It was not to be doubted 
that they had climbed upstairs from a front parlor of an earlier 
stage of social development. The farm-house was six genera¬ 
tions behind Esther; two behind Louise. 

Esther found her friend in a state of almost feverish excite¬ 
ment. Her eyes shone; the color burned high on her clear 
cheeks. 

“ You never would guess what I’ve done, dear! ” she began, 
as soon as they were alone in the big room. “ I’m going to 
see him —to speak to him— Esther! ” Her voice was solemnly 
hushed, “to serve him! ” 

“ Oh, Louise! what do you mean? ” 

“To serve him—with my own hands! To—to—help him 
on with his coat—I don’t know—to do something that a ser¬ 
vant does—anything, so that I can say that once, once only, 
just for an hour, I have been near him, been of use to him, 
served him in one little thing as loyally as he serves OUR 
ART.” 

Music was THEIR art, and no capitals could tell how much 
it was theirs or how much of an art it was. 

“ Louise,” demanded Esther, with a frightened look, “ are 
you crazy? ” 

“No. Read this! ” She handed the other girl a clipping 
from the advertising columns of a newspaper. 

/CHAMBERMAID AND WAITRESS.—WANTED, A NEAT 
and willing girl, for light work. Apply to Mme. Remy, The 
Midlothian,.Broadway. 

“ I saw it just by accident, Saturday, after I left you. Papa 
had left his paper in the coupe. I was going up to my First 
Aid to the Injured Class—it’s at four o’clock now, you know. 
I made up my mind right off—it came to me like an inspiration. 
I just waited until it came to the place where they showed 
how to tie up arteries, and then I slipped out. Lots of the 
girls slip out in the horrid parts, you know. And then, in- 



AMERICANS ALL 


46 

stead of waiting in the ante-room, I put on my wrap, and 
pulled the hood over my head and ran off to the Midlothian— 
it’s just around the corner, you know. And I saw his wife.” 

“ What was she like? ” queried Esther, eagerly. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Sort of horrid—actressy. She had a 
pink silk wrapper with swansdown all over it—at four o’clock, 
think! I was awfully frightened when I got there; but it 
wasn’t the least trouble. She hardly looked at me, and she 
engaged me right off. She just asked me if I was willing to 
do a whole lot of things—I forgot what they were—and where 
I’d worked before. I said at Mrs. Barcalow’s.” 

“ Mrs. Barcalow’s? ” 

“Why, yes—my Aunt Amanda, don’t you know—up in 
Framingham. I always have to wash the teacups when I go 
there. Aunty says that everybody has got to do something 
in her house.” 

“ Oh, Louise! ” cried her friend, in shocked admiration; 
“ how can you think of such things? ” 

“Well, I did. And she—his wife, you know— just said: 
‘ Oh, I suppose you’ll do as well as any one—all you girls are 
alike.’ ” 

“ But did she really take you for a—servant? ” 

“ Why, yes, indeed. It was raining. I had that old ulster 
on, you know. I’m to go at twelve o’clock next Saturday.” 

“ But, Louise! ” cried Esther, aghast, “ you don’t truly mean 
to go! ” 

“ I do! ” cried Louise, beaming triumphantly. 

“ Oh, Louise! ” 

“ Now, listen, dear,” said Miss Latimer, with the decision of 
an enthusiastic young lady with New England blood in her 
veins. “ Don’t say a word till I tell you what my plan is. I’ve 
thought it all out, and you’ve got to help me.” 

Esther shuddered. 

“ You foolish child! ” cried Louise. Her eyes were sparkling: 
she was in a state of ecstatic excitement; she could see no 


THE TENOR 


47 


obstacles to the carrying out of her plan. “ You don’t think 
I mean to stay there, do you? I’m just going at twelve o’clock, 
and at four he comes back from the matinee, and at five 
o’clock I’m going to slip on my things and run downstairs, 
and have you waiting for me in the coupe, and off we go. Now 
do you see? ” 

It took some time to bring Esther’s less venturesome spirit 
up to the point of assisting in this undertaking; but she began, 
after a while, to feel the delights of vicarious enterprise, and in 
the end the two girls, their cheeks flushed, their eyes shining 
feverishly, their voices tremulous with childish eagerness, re¬ 
solved themselves into a committee of ways and means; for 
they were two well-guarded young women, and to engineer 
five hours of liberty was difficult to the verge of impossibility. 
However, there is a financial manoeuvre known as “ kiting 
checks,” whereby A exchanges a check with B and B swaps 
with A again, playing an imaginary balance against Time and 
the Clearing House; and by a similar scheme, which an acute 
student of social ethics has called “ kiting calls,” the girls 
found that they could make Saturday afternoon their own, 
without one glance from the watchful eyes of Esther’s mother 
or Louise’s aunt—Louise had only an aunt to reckon with. 

“ And, oh, Esther! ” cried the bolder of the conspirators, 
“ I’ve thought of a trunk—of course I’ve got to have a trunk, 
or she would ask me where it was, and I couldn’t tell her a 
fib. Don’t you remember the French maid who died three 
days after she came here? Her trunk is up in the store-room 
still, and I don’t believe anybody will ever come for it—it’s 
been there seven years now. Let’s go up and look at it.” 

The girls romped upstairs to the great unused upper story, 
where heaps of household rubbish obscured the dusty half¬ 
windows. In a corner, behind Louise’s baby chair and an un¬ 
fashionable hat-rack of the old steering-wheel pattern, they 
found the little brown-painted tin trunk, corded up with clothes¬ 
line. 


48 


AMERICANS ALL 


“Louise! ” said Esther, hastily, “what did you tell her 
your name was? ” 

“ I just said ‘ Louise’.” 

Esther pointed to the name painted on the trunk, 

LOUISE LEVY 

“ It is the hand of Providence,” she said. “ Somehow, now, 
I’m sure you’re quite right to go.” 

And neither of these conscientious young ladies reflected 
for one minute on the discomfort which might be occasioned to 
Madame Remy by the defection of her new servant a half-hour 
before dinner-time on Saturday night. 

“ Oh, child, it’s you, is it? ” was Mme. Remy’s greeting at 
twelve o’clock on Saturday. “ Well, you’re punctual—and 
you look clean. Now, are you going to break my dishes or 
are you going to steal my rings? Well, we’ll find out soon 
enough. Your trunk’s up in your room. Go up to the ser¬ 
vant’s quarters—right at the top of those stairs there. Ask 
for the room that belongs to apartment n. You are to room 
with their girl.” 

Louise was glad of a moment’s respite. She had taken the 
plunge; she was determined to go through to the end. But 
her heart would beat and her hands would tremble. She 
climbed up six flights of winding stairs, and found herself 
weak and dizzy when she reached the top and gazed around her. 
She was in a great half-story room, eighty feet square. The 
most of it was filled with heaps of old furniture and bedding, 
rolls of carpet, of canvas, of oilcloth, and odds and ends of 
discard of unused household gear—the dust thick over all. A 
little space had been left around three sides, to give access to 
three rows of cell-like rooms, in each of which the ceiling sloped 
from the very door to a tiny window at the level of the floor. 
In each room was a bed, a bureau that served for wash-stand, 
a small looking-glass, and one or two trunks. Women’s dresses 


THE TENOR 


49 


hung on the whitewashed walls. She found No. n, threw off, 
desperately, her hat and jacket, and sunk down on the little 
brown tin trunk, all trembling from head to foot. 

“ Hello,” called a cheery voice. She looked up and saw a 
girl in a dirty calico dress. 

“ Just come? ” inquired this person, with agreeable infor¬ 
mality. She was a good-looking large girl, with red hair 
and bright cheeks. She leaned against the door-post and 
polished her finger-nails with a little brush. Her hands were 
shapely. 

“ Ain’t got onto the stair-climbing racket yet, eh? You’ll 
get used to it. * Louise Levy,’ ” she read the name on the trunk. 
“ You don’t look like a sheeny. Can’t tell nothin’ ’bout names, 
can you? My name’s Slattery. You’d think I was Irish, 
wouldn’t you? Well, I’m straight Ne’ York. I’d be dead before 
I was Irish. Born here. Ninth Ward an’ next to an engine 
house. How’s that? There’s white Jews, too. I worked for 
one, pickin’ sealskins down in Prince Street. Most took the 
lungs out of me. But that wasn’t why I shook the biz. It 
queered my hands—see? I’m goin’ to be married in the Fall 
to a German gentleman. He ain’t so Dutch when you know 
him, though. He’s a grocer. Drivin’ now; but he buys out 
the boss in the Fall. How’s that? He’s dead stuck on my 
hooks, an’ I have to keep ’em lookin’ good. I come here be¬ 
cause the work was light. I don’t have to work—only to be 
doin’ somethin’, see? Only got five halls and the lamps. You 
got a fam’ly job, I s’pose? I wouldn’t have that. I don’t 
mind the Sooprintendent; but I’d be dead before I’d be bossed 
by a woman, see? Say, what fam’ly did you say you was 
with? ” 

The stream of talk had acted like a nerve-tonic on Louise. 
She was able to answer: 

“ M—Mr. Remy.” 

“ Ramy?—oh, lord! Got the job with His Tonsils? Well, 
you won’t keep it long. They’re meaner’n three balls, see? 


AMERICANS ALL 


50 

Rent their room up here and chip in with eleven. Their 
girls don’t never stay. Well, I got to step, or the Sooprinten- 
dent’ll be borin’ my ear. Well—so long! ” 

But Louise had fled down the stairs. “ His Tonsils ” rang 
in her ears. What blasphemy! What sacrilege! She could 
scarcely pretend to listen to Mme. Remy’s first instructions. 

The household was parsimonious. Louise washed the cater¬ 
er’s dishes—he made a reduction in his price. Thus she 
learned that a late breakfast took the place of luncheon. She 
began to feel what this meant. The beds had been made; 
but there was work enough. She helped Mme. Remy to sponge 
a heap of faded finery— her dresses. If they had been his 
coats! Louise bent her hot face over the tawdry silks and 
satins, and clasped her parboiled little finger-tips over the 
wet sponge. At half-past three Mme. Remy broke the silence. 

“ We must get ready for Musseer,” she said. An ecstatic 
joy filled Louise’s being. The hour of her reward was at 
hand. 

Getting ready for “ Musseer ” proved to be an appalling 
process. First they brewed what Mme. Remy called a “ teaze 
Ann. ” After the tisane, a host of strange foreign drugs and 
cosmetics were marshalled in order. Then water was set to 
heat on a gas-stove. Then a little table was neatly set. 

“ Musseer has his dinner at half-past four,” Madame ex¬ 
plained. “ I don’t take mine till he’s laid down and I’ve got 
him off to the concert. There, he’s coming now. Sometimes 
he comes home pretty nervous. If he’s nervous, don’t you go 
and make a fuss, do you hear, child? ” 

The door opened, and Musseer entered, wrapped in a huge 
frogged overcoat. There was no doubt that he was nervous. 
He cast his hat upon the floor, as if he were Jove dashing a 
thunderbolt. Fire flashed from his eyes. He advanced upon 
his wife and thrust a newspaper in her face—a little pinky 
sheet, a notorious blackmailing publication. 

“ Zees,” he cried, “ is your work! ” 


THE TENOR 


5i 


“ What is it now, Hipleet? ” demanded Mme. Remy. 

“ Vot it ees? ” shrieked the tenor. “ It ees ze history of 
how zey have heest me at Nice! It ees all zair—how I have 
been heest—in zis sacre sheet—in zis handkairchif of infamy! 
And it ees you zat have told it to zat devil of a Rastignac— 
traitresse! ” 

“ Now, Hipleet,” pleaded his wife, a if I can’t learn enough 
French to talk with you, how am I going to tell Rastignac 
about your being hissed? ” 

This reasoning silenced Mr. Remy for an instant—an instant 
only. 

“ You vood have done it! ” he cried, sticking out his chin 
and thrusting his face forward. 

“ Well, I didn’t,” said Madame, “ and nobody reads that 
thing, any way. Now, don’t mind it, and let me get your 
things off, or you’ll be catching cold.” 

Mr. Remy yielded at last to the necessity of self-preservation, 
and permitted his wife to remove his frogged overcoat, and 
to unwind him from a system of silk wraps to which the 
Gordian knot was a slip-noose. This done, he sat down before 
the dressing-case, and Mme. Remy, after tying a bib around 
his neck, proceeded to dress his hair and put brilliantine on 
his moustache. Her husband enlivened the operation by read¬ 
ing from the pinky paper. 

“ It ees not gen-air-al-lee known—zat zees dees-tin-guished 
tenor vos heest on ze pob-lic staidj at Nice—in ze year—” 

Louise leaned against the wall, sick, faint and frightened, 
with a strange sense of shame and degradation at her heart. 
At last the tenor’s eye fell on her. 

“ Anozzair eediot? ” he inquired. 

“ She ain’t very bright, Hipleet,” replied his wife; “but I 
guess she’ll do. Louise, open the door—there’s the caterer.” 

Louise placed the dishes upon the table mechanically. The 
tenor sat himself at the board, and tucked a napkin in his 
neck. 


52 AMERICANS ALL 

“ And how did the Benediction Song go this afternoon? ” 
inquired his wife. 

“Ze Benediction? Ah! One encore. One on-lee. Zese 
pigs of Ameericains. I t’row my pairls biffo’ swine. Chops 
once more! You vant to mordair me? Vat do zis mean, 
madame? You ar-r-re in lig wiz my enemies. All ze vorlt is 
against ze ar-r-r-teest! ” 

The storm that followed made the first seem a zephyr. The 
tenor exhausted his execratory vocabulary in French and Eng¬ 
lish. At last, by way of a dramatic finale, he seized the plate 
of chops and flung it from him. He aimed at the wall; but 
Frenchmen do not pitch well. With a ring and a crash, plate 
and chops went through the broad window-pane. In the mo¬ 
ment of stricken speechlessness that followed, the sound of 
the final smash came softly up from the sidewalk. 

“ Ah-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah! ” 

The tenor rose to his feet with the howl of an anguished 
hyena. 

“ Oh, good gracious! ” cried his wife; “ he’s going to have 
one of his creezes—his creezes de nare! ” 

He did have a crise de nerfs. “Ten dollair! ” he yelled, 
“ for ten dollair of glass! ” He tore his pomaded hair; he 
tore off his bib and his neck-tie, and for three minutes without 
cessation he shrieked wildly and unintelligibly. It was possible 
to make out, however, that “ arteest ” and “ ten dollair ” were 
the themes of the improvisation. Finally he sank ex¬ 
hausted into the chair, and his white-faced wife rushed to his 
side. 

“Louise! ” she cried, “get the foot-tub out of the closet 
while I spray his throat, or he can’t sing a note. Fill it up 
with warm water—102 degrees—there’s the thermometer— 
and bathe his feet.” 

Trembling from head to foot, Louise obeyed her orders, 
and brought the foot-tub, full of steaming water. Then she 
knelt down and began to serve the maestro for the first time. 


THE TENOR 


53 

She took off his shoes. Then she looked at his socks. Could 
she do it? 

“ Eediot! ” gasped the sufferer, “ make haste! I die! ” 

“ Hold your mouth open, dear,” said Madame, “ I haven’t 
half sprayed you.” 

“Ah! you! ” cried the tenor. “Cat! Devil! It ees you zat 
have killed me! ” And moved by an access of blind rage, he 
extended his arm, and thrust his wife violently from him. 

Louise rose to her feet, with a hard set, good old New 
England look on her face. She lifted the tub of water to 
the level of her breast, and then she inverted it on the tenor’s 
head. For one instant she gazed at the deluge, and at the 
bath-tub balanced on the maestro’s skull like a helmet several 
sizes too large—then she fled like the wind. 

Once in the servant’s quarters, she snatched her hat and 
jacket. From below came mad yells of rage. 

“I kill hare! give me my knife—give me my rivvolvare! 
Au secours! Assassin! ” 

Miss Slattery appeared in the doorway, still polishing her 
nails. 

“ What have you done to His Tonsils? ” she inquired. “ He’s 
pretty hot, this trip.” 

“ How can I get away from here? ” cried Louise. 

Miss Slattery pointed to a small door. Louise rushed down 
a long stairway—another—and yet others—through a great 
room where there was a smell of cooking and a noise of fires— 
past white-capped cooks and scullions—through a long stone 
corridor, and out into the street. She cried aloud as she saw 
Esther’s face at the window of the coupe. 

She drove home—cured. 


H. C. BUNNER 


Henry Cuyler Bunner was his full name, H. C. Bunner was 
the way he always signed his writings, and u Bunner was 
his name to his friends, and even to his wife. He was born in 
Oswego, New York, August 3, 1855. His parents soon moved 
to New York City, and Bunner was educated in the public 
schools there. Then he became a clerk in a business house, 
but this did not satisfy him, and he began to write for news¬ 
papers, finally getting a position on the Arcadian, a short¬ 
lived journal. In 1877 the publishers of Puck, a humorous 
weekly printed in the German language, decided to issue an 
edition in English, and made Bunner assistant editor. It 
was a happy choice. He soon became editor-in-chief, and 
under his direction the paper became not only the best humor¬ 
ous journal of its time, but a powerful influence in politics as 
well. Bunner wrote not only editorials, humorous verse, short 
stories, and titles for pictures, but often suggested the cartoons, 
which were an important feature of the paper. 

Outside the office he was a delightful conversationalist. His 
friends Brander Matthews, Lawrence Hutton and others speak 
of his ready wit, his kindness of heart, and his wonderfully 
varied store of information. He was a constant reader, and a 
good memory enabled him to retain what he read. It is said 
that one could hardly name a poem that he had not read, and 
it was odds but that he could quote its best lines. Next to 
reading, his chief pleasure was in wandering about odd corners 
of the city, especially the foreign quarters. He knew all the 
queer little restaurants and queer little shops in these places. 

His first literary work of note was a volume of poems, 
happily entitled Airs from Arcady. It contains verses both 
grave and gay: one of the cleverest is called “ Home, Sweet 

54 


H. C. BUNNER 


55 

Home, with Variations.” He writes the poem first in the 
style of Swinburne, then of Bret Harte, then of Austin Dobson, 
then of Oliver Goldsmith and finally of Walt Whitman. The 
book also showed his skill in the use of French forms of 
verse, as in this dainty triolet: 

A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE 

A pitcher of mignonette 
In a tenement’s highest casement: 

Queer sort of flower-pot—yet 
That pitcher of mignonette 
Is a garden in heaven set, 

To the little sick child in the basement— 

The pitcher of mignonette 
In the tenement’s highest casement. 

The last poem in the book, called “ To Her,” was addressed 
to Miss Alice Learned, whom he married soon after, and 
to whom, as “ A. L. B.” all his later books were dedicated. 
Soon after his marriage he moved to Nutley, New Jersey. Here 
he was not only the editor and man of letters but the neighbor 
who could always be called on in time of need, and the citizen 
who took an active part in the community life, helping to 
organize the Village Improvement Society, one of the first 
of its kind. 

He followed up his first volume by two short novels, The 
Midge and The Story of a New York House. Then he under¬ 
took the writing of the short story, his first book being Z adoc 
Pine and other Stories. The title story of this book contains a 
very humorous and faithful delineation of a New Englander who 
is transplanted to a New Jersey suburb. Soon after writing 
this he began to read the short stories of Guy de Maupassant. 
He admired them so much that he half translated, half adapted 
a number of them, and published them under the title Made in 
France. Then he tried writing stories of his own, in the 
manner of de Maupassant, and produced in Short Sixes a 


AMERICANS ALL 


56 

group of stories which are models of concise narrative, crisply 
told, artistic in form, and often with a touch of surprise at the 
end. Other volumes of short stories are More Short Sixes, and 
Love in Old Cloathes. Jersey Street and Jersey Lane was a 
book which grew out of his Nutley life. He also wrote a 
play, The Tower of Babel, which was produced by Marie Wain- 
wright in 1883. He died at Nutley, May n, 1896. He was 
one of the first American authors to develop the short story 
as we know it to-day, and few of his successors have surpassed 
him in the light, sure style and the firmness of construction 
which are characteristic of his later work. 


SOCIETY IN OUR TOWN 


Life in a small town, which means any place of less than a 
hundred thousand people, is more interesting than life in a 
big city. Both places have their notables, but in the small 
town you know these people, in the city you only read about 
them in the papers. In Our Town is a series of portraits of 
the people of a typical small city of the Middle West, seen 
through the keen eyes of a newspaper editor. This story tells 
how the question of the social leadership of the town was finally 
settled. 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 


BY 

William Allen White 

What a dreary waste life in our office must have been 
before Miss Larrabee came to us to edit a society page for the 
paper! To be sure we had known in a vague way that there 
were lines of social cleavage in the town; that there were whist 
clubs, and dancing clubs and women’s clubs, and in a general 
way that the women who composed these clubs made up our best 
society, and that those benighted souls beyond the pale of 
these clubs were out of the caste. We knew that certain 
persons whose names were always handed in on the lists of 
guests at parties were what we called “ howling swells,” but 
it remained for Miss Larrabee to sort out ten or a dozen 
of these “ howling swells,” who belonged to the strictest 
social caste in town, and call them “ howling dervishes.” In¬ 
cidentally it may be said that both Miss Larrabee and her 
mother were dervishes, but that did not prevent her from 
making sport of them. From Miss Larrabee we learned that 
the high priestess of the howling dervishes of our society was 
Mrs. Mortimer Conklin, known by the sisterhood of the 
mosque as Priscilla Winthrop. We in our office had never 
heard her called by that name, but Miss Larrabee explained, 
rather elaborately, that unless one was permitted to speak 
of Mrs. Conklin thus, one was quite beyond the hope of a 
social heaven. 

In the first place, Priscilla Winthrop was Mrs. Conklin’s 
maiden name; in the second place, it links her with the Colonial 
Puritan stock of which she is so justly proud—being scornful of 

59 


6 o 


AMERICANS ALL 


mere Daughters of the Revolution—and finally, though Mrs. 
Conklin is a grandmother, her maiden name seems to preserve 
the sweet, vague illusion of girlhood which Mrs. Conklin always 
carries about her like the shadow of a dream. And Miss 
Larrabee punctuated this with a wink which we took to be a 
quotation mark, and she went on with her work. So we knew 
we had been listening to the language used in the temple. 

Our town was organized fifty years ago by Abolitionists 
from New England, and twenty years ago, when Alphabetical 
Morrison was getting out one of the numerous boom editions 
of his real estate circular, he printed an historical article therein 
in which he said that Priscilla Winthrop was the first white child 
born on the town site. Her father was territorial judge, after¬ 
ward member of the State Senate, and after ten years spent in 
mining in the far West, died in the seventies, the richest man 
in the State. It was known that he left Priscilla, his only child, 
half a million dollars in government bonds. 

She was the first girl in our town to go away to school. 
Naturally, she went to Oberlin, famous in those days for 
admitting colored students. But she finished her education 
at Vassar, and came back so much of a young lady that the 
town could hardly contain her. She married Mortimer Conklin, 
took him to the Centennial on a wedding trip, came home, re¬ 
built her father’s house, covering it with towers and minarets 
and steeples, and scroll-saw fretwork, and christened it Win¬ 
throp Hall. She erected a store building on Main Street, that 
Mortimer might have a luxurious office on the second floor, 
and then settled down to the serious business of life, which 
was building up a titled aristocracy in a Kansas town. 

The Conklin children were never sent to the public schools, 
but had a governess, yet Mortimer Conklin, who was always 
alert for the call, could not understand why the people never 
summoned him to any office of honor or trust. He kept his 
brass signboard polished, went to his office punctually every 
morning at ten o’clock, and returned home to dinner at five, 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 61 


and made clients wait ten minutes in the outer office before they 
could see him—at least so both of them say, and there were 
no others in all the years. He shaved every day, wore a frock- 
coat and a high hat to church—where for ten years he was the 
only male member of the Episcopalian flock—and Mrs. Conklin 
told the women that altogether he was a credit to his sex and 
his family—a remark which has passed about ribaldly in town 
for a dozen years, though Mortimer Conklin never knew that he 
was the subject of a town joke. Once he rebuked a man in 
the barber shop for speaking of feminine extravagance, and told 
the shop that he did not stint his wife, that when she asked him 
for money he always gave it to her without question, and that 
if she wanted a dress he told her to buy it and send the bill 
to him. And we are such a polite people that no one in the 
crowded shop laughed—until Mortimer Conklin went out. 

Of course at the office we have known for twenty-five years 
what the men thought of Mortimer, but not until Miss Larra- 
bee joined the force did we know that among the women 
Mrs. Conklin was considered an oracle. Miss Larrabee said 
that her mother has a legend that when Priscilla Winthrop 
brought home from Boston the first sealskin sacque ever worn 
in town she gave a party for it, and it lay in its box on the 
big walnut bureau in the spare room of the Conklin mansion in 
solemn state, while seventy-five women salaamed to it. After 
that Priscilla Winthrop was the town authority on sealskins. 
When any member of the town nobility had a new sealskin, 
she took it humbly to Priscilla Winthrop to pass judgment upon 
it. If Priscilla said it was London-dyed, its owner pranced 
away on clouds of glory; but if she said it was American-dyed, 
its owner crawled away in shame, and when one admired the 
disgraced garment, the martyred owner smiled with resigned 
sweetness and said humbly: “Yes—but it’s only American- 
dyed, you know.” 

No dervish ever questioned the curse of the priestess. The 
only time a revolt was imminent was in the autumn of 1884 


62 


AMERICANS ALL 


when the Conklins returned from their season at Duxbury, Mas* 
sachusetts, and Mrs. Conklin took up the carpets in her house, 
heroically sold all of them at the second-hand store, put in 
new waxed floors and spread down rugs. The town uprose and 
hooted; the outcasts and barbarians in the Methodists and 
Baptist Missionary Societies rocked the Conklin home with 
their merriment, and ten dervishes with set faces bravely met 
the onslaughts of the savages; but among themselves in hushed 
whispers, behind locked doors, the faithful wondered if there 
was not a mistake some place. However, when Priscilla Win- 
throp assured them that in all the best homes in Boston rugs 
were replacing carpets, their souls were at peace. 

All this time we at the office knew nothing of what was 
going on. We knew that the Conklins devoted considerable 
time to society; but Alphabetical Morrison explained that by 
calling attention to the fact that Mrs. Conklin had prema¬ 
turely gray hair. He said a woman with prematurely gray hair 
was as sure to be a social leader as a spotted horse is to join a 
circus. But now we know that Colonel Morrison’s view was 
a superficial one, for he was probably deterred from going 
deeper into the subject by his dislike for Mortimer Conklin, 
who invested a quarter of a million dollars of the Winthrop 
fortune in the Wichita boom, and lost it. Colonel Morrison 
naturally thought as long as Conklin was going to lose that 
money he could have lost it just as well at home in the 
“ Queen City of the Prairies,” giving the Colonel a chance to 
win. And when Conklin, protecting his equities in Wichita, sent 
a hundred thousand dollars of good money after the quarter 
million of bad money, Colonel Morrison’s grief could find no 
words; though he did find language for his wrath. When the 
Conklins draped their Oriental rugs for airing every Saturday 
over the veranda and portico railings of the house front, Colo¬ 
nel Morrison accused the Conklins of hanging out their stamp 
collection to let the neighbors see it. This was the only side 
of the rug question we ever heard in our office until Miss Larra- 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHRQP 63 

bee came; then she told us that one of the first requirements 
of a howling dervish was to be able to quote from Priscilla 
Winthrop’s Rug book from memory. The Rug book, the 
China book and the Old Furniture book were the three sacred 
scrolls of the sect. 

All this was news to us. However, through Colonel Morrison, 
we had received many years ago another sidelight on the social 
status of the Conklins. It came out in this way: Time hon¬ 
ored custom in our town allows the children of a home where 
there is an outbreak of social revelry, whether a church festival 
or a meeting of the Cold-Nosed Whist Club, to line up with the 
neighbor children on the back stoop or in the kitchen, like 
human vultures, waiting to lick the ice-cream freezer and to 
devour the bits of cake and chicken salad that are left over. 
Colonel Morrison told us that no child was ever known to 
adorn the back yard of the Conklin home while a social 
cataclysm was going on, but that when Mrs. Morrison enter¬ 
tained the Ladies’ Literary League, children from the holy 
Conklin family went home from his back porch with their 
faces smeared with chicken croquettes and their hands sticky 
with jellycake. 

This story never gained general circulation in town, but even 
if it had been known of all men it would not have shaken 
the faith of the devotees. For they did not smile when Priscilla 
Winthrop began to refer to old Frank Hagan, who came to milk 
the Conklin cow and curry the Conklin horse, as “ Francois, 
the man,” or to call the girl who did the cooking and general 
housework “ Cosette, the maid,” though every one of the 
dozen other women in town whom “ Cosette, the maid ” had 
worked for knew that her name was Fanny Ropes. And 
shortly after that the homes of the rich and the great over 
on the hill above Main Street began to fill with Lisettes and 
Nanons and Fanchons, and Mrs. Julia Neal Worthington called 
her girl “ Grisette,” explaining that they had always had a 
Grisette about the house since her mother first went to house- 


AMERICANS ALL 


64 

keeping in Peoria, Illinois, and it sounded so natural to hear 
the name that they always gave it to a new servant. This 
story came to the office through the Young Prince, who chuckled 
over it during the whole hour he consumed in writing Ezra 
Worthington’s obituary. 

Miss Larrabee says that the death of Ezra Worthington 
marks such a distinct epoch in the social life of the town that 
we must set down here—even if the narrative of the Conklins 
halts for a moment—how the Worthingtons rose and flourished. 
Julia Neal, the eldest daughter of Thomas Neal—who lost the 
“ O ” before his name somewhere between the docks of Dublin 
and the west bank of the Missouri River—was for ten years 
principal of the ward school in that part of our town known 
as “ Arkansaw,” where her term of service is still remembered 
as the “ reign of terror.” It was said of her then that she 
could whip any man in the vrard—and would do it if he 
gave her a chance. The same manner which made the neigh¬ 
bors complain that Julia Neal carried her head too high, later in 
life, when she had money to back it, gave her what the women 
of the State Federation called a “ regal air.” In her early 
thirties she married Ezra Worthington, bachelor, twenty years 
her senior. Ezra Worthington was at that time, had been for 
twenty years before, and continued to be until his death, 
proprietor of the Worthington Poultry and Produce Com¬ 
mission Company. He was owner of the stockyards, president 
of the Worthington State Bank, vice-president, treasurer and 
general manager of the Worthington Mercantile Company, and 
owner of five brick buildings on Main Street. He bought one 
suit of clothes every five years whether he needed it or not, 
never let go of a dollar unless the Goddess of Liberty on it was 
black in the face, and died rated “ at $350,000 ” by all the 
commercial agencies in the country. And the first thing Mrs. 
Worthington did after the funeral was to telephone to the 
bank and ask them to send her a hundred dollars. 

The next important thing she did was to put a heavy, im- 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 65 

movable granite monument over the deceased so that he would 
not be restless, and then she built what is known in our town as 
the Worthington Palace. It makes the Markley mansion which 
cost $25,000 look like a barn. The Worthingtons in the life¬ 
time of Ezra had ventured no further into the social whirl of 
the town than to entertain the new Presbyterian preacher at 
tea, and to lend their lawn to the King’s Daughters for a 
social, sending a bill in to the society for the eggs used in the 
coffee and the gasoline used in heating it. 

To the howling dervishes who surrounded Priscilla Winthrop 
the Worthingtons were as mere Christian dogs. It was not 
until three years after Ezra Worthington’s death that the 
glow of the rising Worthington sun began to be seen in the 
Winthrop mosque. During those three years Mrs. Worthington 
had bought and read four different sets of the best hundred 
books, had consumed the Chautauque course, had prepared 
and delivered for the Social Science Club, which she organized, 
five papers ranging in subject from the home life of Rameses I., 
through a Survey of the Forces Dominating Michael Angelo, 
to the Influence of Esoteric Buddhism on Modern Political 
Tendencies. More than that, she had been elected president of 
the City Federation clubs and being a delegate to the Na¬ 
tional Federation from the State, was talked of for 
the State Federation Presidency. When the State Federa¬ 
tion met in our town, Mrs. Worthington gave a reception for 
the delegates in the Worthington Palace, a feature of which was 
a concert by a Kansas City organist on the new pipe-organ 
which she had erected in the music-room of her house, and 
despite the fact that the devotees of the Priscilla shrine said 
that the crowd was distinctly mixed and not at all representa¬ 
tive of our best social grace and elegance, there is no question 
but that Mrs. Worthington’s reception made a strong im¬ 
pression upon the best local society. The fact that, as Miss 
Larrabee said, “ Priscilla Winthrop was so nice about it,” 
also may be regarded as ominous. But the women who lent 


66 


AMERICANS ALL 


Mrs. Worthington the spoons and forks for the occasion were 
delighted, and formed a phalanx about her, which made up 
in numbers what it might have lacked in distinction. Yet 
while Mrs. Worthington was in Europe the faithful routed the 
phalanx, and Mrs. Conklin returned from her summer in 
Duxbury with half a carload of old furniture from Harrison 
Sampson’s shop and gave a talk to the priestesses of the inner 
temple on “ Heppelwhite in New England.” 

Miss Larrabee reported the affair for our paper, giving the 
small list of guests and the long line of refreshments—which 
included alligator-pear salad, right out of the Smart Set Cook 
Book. Moreover, when Jefferson appeared in Topeka that 
fall, Priscilla Winthrop, who had met him through some of her 
Duxbury friends in Boston, invited him to run down for a 
luncheon with her and the members of the royal family who 
surrounded her. It was the proud boast of the defenders of 
the Winthrop faith in town that week, that though twenty- 
four people sat down to the table, not only did all the men 
wear frock coats—not only did Uncle Charlie Haskins of 
String Town wear the old Winthrop butler’s livery without a 
wrinkle in it, and with only the faint odor of mothballs to 
mingle with the perfume of the roses—but (and here the 
voices of the followers of the prophet dropped in awe) not a 
single knife or fork or spoon or napkin was borrowed! After 
that, when any of the sisterhood had occasion to speak of the 
absent Mrs. Worthington, whose house was filled with new 
mahogany and brass furniture, they referred to her as the 
Duchess of Grand Rapids, which gave them much comfort. 

But joy is short-lived. When Mrs. Worthington came back 
from Europe and opened her house to the City Federation, and 
gave a colored lantern-slide lecture on “ An evening with the 
Old Masters,” serving punch from her own cut-glass punch bow! 
instead of renting the hand-painted crockery bowl of the 
queensware store, the old dull pain came back into the hearts 
of the dwellers in the inner circle. Then just in the nick 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 67 

of time Mrs. Conklin went to Kansas City and was operated on 
for appendicitis. She came back pale and interesting, and 
gave her club a paper called “ Hospital Days,” fragrant with 
iodoform and Henley’s poems. Miss Larrabee told us that 
it was almost as pleasant as an operation on one’s self to 
hear Mrs. Conklin tell about hers. And they thought it was 
rather brutal—so Miss Larrabee afterward told us—wnen 
Mrs. Worthington went to the hospital one month, and gave 
her famous Delsarte lecture course the next month, and ex¬ 
plained to the women that if she wasn’t as heavy as she used 
to be it was because she had had everything cut out of her 
below the windpipe. It seemed to the temple priestesses that, 
considering what a serious time poor dear Priscilla Winthrop 
had gone through, Mrs. Worthington was making light of 
serious things. 

There is no doubt that the formal rebellion of Mrs. Worth¬ 
ington, Duchess of Grand Rapids, and known of the towm’s 
nobility as the Pretender, began with the hospital contest. The 
Pretender planted her siege-guns before the walls of the temple 
of the priestess, and prepared for business. The first ma¬ 
neuver made by the beleaguered one was to give a luncheon 
in the mosque, at which, though it was midwinter, fresh 
tomatoes and fresh strawberries were served, and a real 
authoress from Boston talked upon John Fiske’s philosophy 
and, in the presence of the admiring guests, made a new kind of 
salad dressing for the fresh lettuce and tomatoes. Thirty wo¬ 
men who watched her forgot what John Fiske’s theory of the 
cosmos is, and thirty husbands who afterward ate that salad 
dressing have learned to suffer and be strong. But that salad 
dressing undermined the faith of thirty mere men—raw out- 
landers to be sure—in the social omniscience of Priscilla Win¬ 
throp. Of course they did not see it made; the spell of the 
enchantress was not over them; but in their homes they main¬ 
tained that if Priscilla Winthrop didn’t know any more about 
cosmic philosophy than to pay a woman forty dollars to make 


68 


AMERICANS ALL 


a salad dressing like that—and the whole town knows that was 
the price—the vaunted town of Duxbury, Massachusetts, with 
its old furniture and new culture, which Priscilla spoke of in 
such repressed ecstasy, is probably no better than Manitou, 
Colorado, where they get their Indian goods from Buffalo, New 
York. 

Such is the perverse reasoning of man. And Mrs. Worthing¬ 
ton, having lived with considerable of a man for fifteen years, 
hearing echoes of this sedition, attacked the fortification of the 
faithful on its weakest side. She invited the thirty seditious 
husbands with their wives to a beefsteak dinner, where she 
heaped their plates with planked sirloin, garnished the sirloin 
with big, fat, fresh mushrooms, and topped off the meal with a 
mince pie of her own concoction, which would make a man 
leave home to follow it. She passed cigars at the table, and 
after the guests went into the music-room ten old men with 
ten old fiddles appeared and contested with old-fashioned tunes 
for a prize, after which the company danced four quadrilles 
and a Virginia reel. The men threw down their arms going 
home and went over in a body to the Pretender. But 
in a social conflict men are mere non-combatants, and 
their surrender did not seriously injure the cause that they 
deserted. 

The war went on without abatement. During the spring 
that followed the winter of the beefsteak dinner many 
skirmishes, minor engagements, ambushes and midnight raids 
occurred. But the contest was not decisive. For purposes of 
military drill, the defenders of the Winthrop faith formed 
themselves into a Whist Club. The Whist Club they called 
it, just as they spoke of Priscilla Winthrop’s gowns as “ the 
black and white one,” “ the blue brocade,” “ the white china 
silk,” as if no other black and white or blue brocade or white 
china silk gowns had been created in the world before and could 
not be made again by human hands. So, in the language of 
the inner sanctuary, there was “ The Whist Club,” to the exclu- 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 69 

sion of all othei: possible human Whist Clubs under the stars. 
When summer came the Whist Club fled as birds to the moun¬ 
tains—save Priscilla Winthrop, who went to Duxbury, and 
came home with a brass w T arming-pan and a set of Royal 
Copenhagen china that were set up as holy objects in the 
temple. 

But Mrs. Worthington went to the National Federation of 
Women’s Clubs, made the acquaintance of the women there 
who wore clothes from Paris, began tracing her ancestry back 
to the Maryland Calverts—on her mother’s side of the house— 
brought home a membership in the Daughters of the Revolu¬ 
tion, the Colonial Dames and a society which referred to 
Charles I. as “ Charles Martyr,” claimed a Stuart as the 
rightful king of England, affecting to score the impudence of 
King Edward in sitting on another’s throne. More than this, 
Mrs. Worthington had secured the promise of Mrs. Ellen Vail 
Montgomery, Vice-President of the National Federation, to 
visit Cliff Crest, as Mrs. Worthington called the Worthington 
mansion, and she turned up her nose at those who worshiped 
under the towers, turrets and minarets of the Conklin mosque, 
and played the hose of her ridicule on their outer wall that 
she might have it spotless for a target when she got ready to 
raze it with her big gun. 

The week that Ellen Vail Montgomery came to town was 
a busy one for Miss Larrabee. We turned over the whole 
fourth page of the paper to her for a daily society page, and 
charged the Bee Hive and the White Front Dry Goods store 
people double rates to put their special advertisements on that 
page while the “ National Vice,” as the Young Prince called 
her, was in town. For the “ National Vice ” brought the 
State President and two State Vices down, also four District 
Presidents and six District Vices, who, as Miss Larrabee said, 
were monsters “ of so frightful mien, that to be hated need 
but to be seen.” The entire delegation of visiting states- 
women—Vices and Virtues and Beatitudes as we called them— 


70 


AMERICANS ALL 


were entertained by Mrs. Worthington at Cliff Crest, and there 
was so much Federation politics going on in our town that the 
New York Sun took five hundred words about it by wire, and 
Colonel Alphabetical Morrison said that with all those dressed- 
up women about he felt as though he was living in a Sunday 
supplement. 

The third day of the ghost-dance at Cliff Crest was to be 
the day of the big event—as the office parlance had it. The 
ceremonies began at sunrise with a breakfast to which half a 
dozen of the captains and kings of the besieging host of the 
Pretender were bidden. It seems to have been a modest orgy, 
with nothing more astonishing than a new gold-band china set 
to dishearten the enemy. By ten o’clock Priscilla Winthrop 
and the Whist Club had recovered from that; but they had 
been asked to the luncheon—the star feature of the week’s round 
of gayety. It is just as well to be frank, and say that they 
went with fear and trembling. Panic and terror were in their 
ranks, for they knew a crisis was at hand. It came when they 
were “ ushered into the dining-hall,” as our paper so grandly 
put it, and saw in the great oak-beamed room a table laid 
on the polished bare wood—a table laid for forty-eight guests, 
with a doily for every plate, and every glass, and every salt¬ 
cellar, and—here the mosque fell on the heads of the howling 
dervishes—forty-eight soup-spoons, forty-eight silver-handled 
knives and forks; forty-eight butter-spreaders, forty-eight 
spoons, forty-eight salad forks, forty-eight ice-cream spoons, 
forty-eight coffee spoons. Little did it avail the beleaguered 
party to peep slyly under the spoon-handles—the word 
“ Sterling ” was there, and, more than that, a large, severely 
plain “ W ” with a crest glared up at them from every piece of 
silver. The service had not been rented. They knew their 
case was hopeless. And so they ate in peace. 

When the meal was over it was Mrs. Ellen Vail Mont¬ 
gomery, in her thousand-dollar gown, worshiped by the eyes 
of forty-eight women, who put her arm about Priscilla Win- 


THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 71 

throp and led her into the conservatory, where they had “ a 
dear, sweet quarter of an hour,” as Mrs. Montgomery after¬ 
ward told her hostess. In that dear, sweet quarter of an hour 
Priscilla Winthrop Conklin unbuckled her social sword and 
handed it to the conqueror, in that she agreed absolutely with 
Mrs. Montgomery that Mrs. Worthington was “ perfectly 
lovely,” that she was “ delighted to be of any service ” to Mrs. 
Worthington; that Mrs. Conklin “ was sure no one else in our 
town was so admirably qualified for National Vice ” as Mrs. 
Worthington, and that “ it would be such a privilege ” for 
Mrs. Conklin to suggest Mrs. Worthington’s name for the office. 
And then Mrs. Montgomery, “ National Vice ” and former 
State Secretary for Vermont of the Colonial Dames, kissed Pris¬ 
cilla Winthrop and they came forth wet-eyed and radiant, hold¬ 
ing each other’s hands. When the company had been hushed 
by the magic of a State Vice and two District Virtues, Pris¬ 
cilla Winthrop rose and in the sweetest Kansas Bostonese told 
the ladies that she thought this an eminently fitting place to 
let the visiting ladies know how dearly our town esteems its 
most distinguished townswoman, Mrs. Julia Neal Worthington, 
and that entirely without her solicitation, indeed quite without 
her knowledge, the women of our town—and she hoped of our 
beloved State—were ready now to announce that they were 
unanimous in their wish that Mrs. Worthington should be 
National Vice-President of the Federation of Women’s Clubs, 
and that she, the speaker, had entered the contest with her 
whole soul to bring this end to pass. Then there was hand¬ 
clapping and handkerchief waving and some tears, and a little 
good, honest Irish hugging, and in the twilight two score of 
women filed down through the formal garden of Cliff Crest and 
walked by twos and threes in to the town. 

There was the usual clatter of home-going wagons; lights 
winked out of kitchen windows; the tinkle of distant cow-bells 
was in the air; on Main Street the commerce of the town 
was gently ebbing, and man and nature seemed utterly oblivious 


72 


AMERICANS ALL 


of the great event that had happened. The course of human 
events was not changed; the great world rolled on, while Pris¬ 
cilla Winthrop went home to a broken shrine to sit among the 
the potsherds. 


WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 


(Written by Mr. White especially for this book.) 

I was born in Emporia, Kansas, February io, 1868, when 
Emporia was a pioneer village a hundred miles from a railroad. 
My father came to Emporia in 1859 and my mother in 1855. 
She was a pioneer school teacher and he a pioneer doctor. 
She was pure bred Irish, and he of Yankee lineage since 1639. 
When I was a year old, Emporia became too effete for my 
parents, and they moved to El Dorado, Kansas. There I 
grew up. El Dorado was a town of a dozen houses, located 
on the banks of the Walnut, a sluggish, but a clear and beau¬ 
tiful prairie stream, rock bottom, and spring fed. I grew up 
in El Dorado, a prairie village boy; went to the large stone 
school house that “ reared its awful form ” on the hill above 
the town before there were any two-story buildings in the 
place. 

In 1884, I was graduated from the town high school, and 
went to the College of Emporia for a year; worked a year as 
a printer’s devil; learned something of the printer’s trade; went 
to school for another year, working in the afternoons and 
Saturdays at the printer’s case; became a reporter on the 
Emporia News; later went to the State University for three 
years. After more or less studying and working on the 
Lawrence papers, I went back to El Dorado as manager of 
the El Dorado Republican for State Senator T. B. Murdock. 

From the El Dorado Republican, I went to Kansas City to 
work for the Kansas City Journal, and at 24 became an edi¬ 
torial writer on the Kansas City Star. For three years I 
worked on the Star, during which time I married Miss Sallie 
Lindsay, a Kansas City, Kansas, school teacher. In 1895 I 

73 


AMERICANS ALL 


74 

bought the Emporia Gazette on credit, without a cent in 
money, and chiefly with the audacity and impudence of youth. 
It was then a little paper; I paid three thousand dollars for 
it, and I have lived in Emporia ever since. 

In 1896, I published a book of short stories called The 
Real Issue; in 1899, another book of short stories called The 
Court of Boyville. In 1901, I published a third book of short 
stories called Stratagems and Spoils; in 1906, In Our Town. 
In 1909, I published my first novel, A Certain Rich Man. 
In 1910, I published a book of political essays called The 
Old Order Changeth; in 1916, a volume of short stories en¬ 
titled God’s Puppets. A volume half novel and half travel 
sketches called The Martial Adventures of Henry & Me filled 
the gap between my two novels; and the second novel, In the 
Heart of a Fool was published in 1918. 

I am a member of the National Institute of Arts and Let¬ 
ters; the Short Ballot Association; the International Peace 
Society; National Civic Federation; National Academy of 
Political Science; have honorary degrees from the College of 
Emporia, Baker University, and Columbia University of the 
City of New York; was regent of the Kansas State University 
from 1905 to 1913. Politically I am a Republican and was 
elected National Republican Committeeman from Kansas in 
1912, but resigned to be Progressive National Committeeman 
from Kansas that year. I am now a member of the Repub¬ 
lican National Committee on Platforms and Policies appointed 
by the National Chairman, Will S. Hays. I am a trustee of 
the College of Emporia; a member of the Congregational 
Church, and of the Elks Lodge, and of no other organization. 

William Allen White. 

To the above biography a few items about Mr. White’s 
literary work may be added. It was through an editorial that 
he first became famous. This appeared in the Emporia 
Gazette in 1896, with the title, “ What’s the matter with 


WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE 


75 

Kansas? ” It contained so much good sense, and was 
written in such vigorous English that it was copied in news¬ 
papers all over the country. Perhaps no other editorial 
ever brought such sudden recognition to its author. In the 
same year he published his first book, The Real Issue, a volume 
of short stories. Some of them pictured the life of a small 
town, some centered about politics, and some were stories of 
small boys. These three subjects were the themes of most of 
Mr. White’s later books. 

Stratagems and Spoils, a volume of short stories, dealt 
chiefly with politics, as seen from the inside. In Our Town, 
from which “ The Passing of Priscilla Winthrop ” is taken, be¬ 
longs to the studies of small-town life. His first novel, A Cer¬ 
tain Rich Man, was published in 1909. Its theme is the 
development of an American multi-millionaire, from his be¬ 
ginning as a small business man with a reputation for close 
dealing, his success, his reaching out to greater schemes, grow¬ 
ing more and more unscrupulous in his methods, until at last 
he achieves the great wealth he had sought, but in winning it 
he loses his soul. 

This book was written during a vacation in the Colorado 
mountains. His family were established in a log cabin, and 
he set up a tent near by for a workshop. This is his account 
of his method of writing: 

My working day was supposed to begin at nine o’clock in the 
morning, but the truth is I seldom reached the tent before ten. Then 
it took me some time to get down to work. From then on until late 
in the afternoon I would sit at my typewriter, chew my tongue, and 
pound away. Each night I read to my wife what I had written that 
day, and Mrs. White would criticise it. While my work was redhot 
I couldn’t get any perspective on it—each day’s installment seemed 
to me the finest literature I had ever read. She didn’t always agree 
with me. When she disapproved of anything I threw it away— 
after a row—and re-wrote it. 

In his next book, The Old Order Changeth, Mr. White 
turned aside from fiction to write a series of papers dealing 


76 AMERICANS ALL 

with various reform movements in our national life. He shows 
how through these much has been done to regain for the 
people the control of municipal and state affairs. The material 
for this book was drawn largely from Mr. White’s participation 
in political affairs. 

In 1917 he was sent to France as an observer by the 
American Red Cross. The lighter side of what he saw there 
was told in The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me. His 
latest book is a long novel, In the Heart of a Fool, another 
study of American life of to-day. 

All in all, he stands as one of the chief interpreters in fiction 
of the spirit of the Middle West,—a section of our country 
which some observers say is the most truly American part of 
America. 


A PAIR OF LOVERS 


The typical love story begins by telling us how two young 
people fall in love, allows us to eavesdrop at a proposal, with 
soft moonlight effects, and then requests our presence at a 
wedding. Or perhaps an elopement precedes the wedding, 
which gives us. an added thrill. The scene may be laid any¬ 
where, the period may be the present or any time back to the 
Middle Ages, (apparently people did not fall in love at any 
earlier periods), but the formula remains the same. O. Henry 
wrote a love story that does not follow the formula. He called 
it “ The Gift of the Magi.” 


THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 


BY 

O. Henry 

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty 
cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a 
time by bulldozing-the grocer and the vegetable man and the 
butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of 
parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della 
counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next 
day would be Christmas. 

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby 
little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates 
the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and 
smiles, with sniffles predominating. 

While the mistress of the house is gradually subsiding from 
the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A 
furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar 
description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for 
the mendicancy squad. 

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter 
would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger 
could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card 
bearing the name “ Mr. James Dillingham Young.” 

The “ Dillingham ” had been flung to the breeze during a 
former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid 
$30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the 
letters of “ Dillingham ” looked blurred, as though they were 
thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming 
D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home 
and reached his flat above he was called “ Jim ” and greatly 

79 


8o 


AMERICANS ALL 


hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced 
to you as Della. Which is all very good. 

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the 
powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at 
a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. To-morrow 
would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which 
to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she 
could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week 
doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had 
calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present 
for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning 
for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and ster¬ 
ling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the 
honor of being owned by Jim. 

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. 
Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin 
and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a 
rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate 
conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered 
the art. 

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before 
the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face 
had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled 
down her hair and let it fall to its full length. 

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham 
Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was 
Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grand¬ 
father’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of 
Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let 
her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to de¬ 
preciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon 
been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, 
Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, 
just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. 

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and 


THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 


81 


shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below 
her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then 
she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered 
for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on 
the worn red carpet. 

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. 
With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her 
eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the 
street. 

Where she stopped the sign read: “ Mme. Sofronie. Hair 
Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected 
herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly 
looked the “ Sofronie.” 

u Will you buy my hair? ” asked Della. 

“ I buy hair,” said Madame. “ Take yer hat off and let’s 
have a sight at the looks of it.” 

Down rippled the brown cascade. 

“ Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a 
practised hand. 

“ Give it to me quick,” said Della. 

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. For¬ 
get the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for 
Jim’s present. 

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and 
no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, 
and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum 
fob chain, simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming 
its value by substance and not by meretricious ornamentation 
—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The 
Watch. 

As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It 
was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied 
to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and 
she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his 
watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any 


82 


AMERICANS ALL 


company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it 
on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in 
place of a chain. 

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a 
little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons 
and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages 
made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremen¬ 
dous task, dear friends—a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close- 
lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant school¬ 
boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, 
and critically. 

“ If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “ before he 
takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island 
chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with 
a dollar and eighty-seven cents? ” 

At seven o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan 
was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the 
chops. 

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand 
and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he 
always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away 
down on the first flight and she turned white for just a mo¬ 
ment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about 
the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: 

“ Please God, make him think I am still pretty.” 

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He 
looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty- 
two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new 
overcoat and he was without gloves. 

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at 
the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there 
was an expression in them that she could not read, and it 
terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, 
nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been pre- 


THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 83 

pared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar 
expression on his face. 

Della wriggled off the table and went to him. 

“ Jim, darling/’ she cried, “ don’t look at me that way. I 
had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn’t have lived 
through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out 
again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My 
hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas! ’ Jim, and 
let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, 
nice gift I’ve got for you.” 

“ You’ve cut off your hair? ” asked Jim, laboriously, as if 
he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the 
hardest mental labor. 

“ Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “ Don’t you like me 
just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I? ” 

Jim looked about the room curiously. 

“ You say your hair is gone? ” he said, with an air almost 
of idiocy. 

“ You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “ It’s sold, I tell 
you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good 
to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were 
numbered,” she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, “ but 
nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops 
on, Jim? ” 

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to awake. He en¬ 
folded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet 
scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. 
Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? 
A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. 
The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. 
This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. 

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it 
upon the table. 

“ Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” h$ said, “ about me. I 
don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave 


84 


AMERICANS ALL 


or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But 
if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me 
going a while at first.” 

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And 
then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick femin¬ 
ine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the im¬ 
mediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord 
of the flat. 

For there lay The combs—the set of combs, side and back, 
that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. 
Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just 
the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were 
expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved 
and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. 
And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have 
adorned the coveted adornments were gone. 

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was 
able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “ My hair 
grows so fast, Jim! ” 

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, 
“ Oh, oh! ” 

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out 
to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal 
seemed to flash with reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. 

“ Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. 
You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. 
Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.” 

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put 
his hands under the back of his head and smiled. 

“ Dell,” said he, “ let’s put our Christmas presents away 
and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. 
I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now 
suppose you put the chops on.” 

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise 
men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They 


THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 85 

invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, 
their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the pri¬ 
vilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have 
lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish 
children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other 
the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the 
wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts 
these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, 
such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are 
the magi. 


0 . HENRY 


He came to New York in 1902 almost unknown. At his 
death eight years later he was the best known writer of 
short stories in America. His life was as full of ups and 
downs, and of strange turns of fortune, as one of his own 
stories. William Sidney Porter, who always signed his stories 
as O. Henry, was born in Greenboro, North Carolina, Septem¬ 
ber 11, 1862. His mother died when he was but three years 
old; and an aunt, Miss Evelina Porter, cared for him and gave 
him nearly all his education. Books, too, were his teachers. 
He says that between his thirteenth and nineteenth years he 
did more reading than in all the years since. His favorite 
books were The Arabian Nights , in Lane’s translation, and 
Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, an old English book in which 
bits of science, superstition and reflections upon life were 
strangely mingled. Other books that he enjoyed were the 
works of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Victor Hugo and Alex¬ 
andre Dumas. He early showed ability as a cartoonist, and 
was noted among his friends as a good story teller. After school 
days he became a clerk in his uncle’s drug store, and here 
acquired that knowledge which he used to such good effect in 
stories like “ Makes the Whole World Kin ” and “ The Love 
Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein.” 

His health was not robust, and confinement in a drug store 
did not improve it. A friend who was going to Texas invited 
him to go along, and from 1882 to 1884 he lived on a ranch, 
acting as cowboy, and at odd moments studying French, Ger¬ 
man and Spanish. Then he went to Austin, where at various 
times he was clerk, editor, bookkeeper, draftsman, bank teller, 
actor and cartoonist. In 1887 married Miss Athol Roach. 
He began contributing short stories and humorous sketches 

86 


0. HENRY 


87 

to newspapers, and finally purchased a paper of his own, which 
he called Rolling Stones, a humorous weekly. After a year the 
paper failed, and the editor went to Houston to become a 
reporter on the Daily Post. A year later, it was discovered 
that there were serious irregularities in the bank in which he had 
worked in Austin. Several arrests were made, and O. Henry 
was called to stand trial with others. He had not been guilty 
of wrong doing, but the affairs of the bank had been so loosely 
managed that he was afraid that he would be convicted, so 
he fled to Central America. After a year there, he heard that 
his wife’s health was failing, and returned to Austin to give 
himself up. He was found guilty, and sentenced to five years 
in the Ohio penitentiary. His wife died before the trial. His 
time in prison was shortened by good behavior to a little more 
than three years, ending in 1901. He wrote a number of stories 
during this time, sending them to friends who in turn mailed 
them to publishers. The editor of Ainslie’s Magazine had 
printed several of them and in 1902 he wrote to O. Henry urg¬ 
ing him to come to New York, and offering him a hundred 
dollars apiece for a dozen stories. He came, and from that 
time made New York his home, becoming very fond of Little 
Old-Bagdad-on-the-Subway as he called it. 

He had found the work which he wished to do, and he 
turned out stories very rapidly. These were first published 
in newspapers and magazines, then collected in book form. The 
first of these volumes, Cabbages and Kings , had Central Am¬ 
erica as its setting. He said that while there he had knocked 
around chiefly with refugees and consuls. The Four Million 
was a group of stories of New York; it contained some of his 
best tales, such as “ The Gift of the Magi,” and “ An Unfin¬ 
ished Story.” The Trimmed Lamp and The Voice of the City 
also dealt with New York. The Gentle Grafter was a collec¬ 
tion of stories about confidence men and “ crooks.” The mate¬ 
rial for these narratives he had gathered from his companions 
in his prison days. Heart of the West reflects his days on a 


88 


AMERICANS ALL 


Texas ranch. Other books, more or less miscellaneous in their 
locality, are Roads of Destiny , Options , Strictly Business, 
Whirligigs; and Sixes and Sevens. He died in New York, 
June 5, 1910. After his death a volume containing some of 
his earliest work was published under the title Rolling Stones. 

His choice of subjects is thus indicated in the preface to 
The Four Million : 

“Not very long ago some one invented the assertion that 
there were only 4 Four Hundred ’ people in New York who 
were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen—the 
census taker—and his larger estimate of human interest has 
been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories 
of the 1 Four Million/ ” 

It was the common man,—the clerk, the bartender, the police¬ 
man, the waiter, the tramp, that O. Henry chose for his charac¬ 
ters. He loved to talk to chance acquaintances on park benches 
or in cheap lodging houses, to see life from their point of view. 
His stories are often of the picaresque type; a name given to 
a kind of story in which the hero is an adventurer, sometimes 
a rogue. He sees the common humanity, and the redeeming 
traits even in these. His plots usually have a turn of surprise 
at the end; sometimes the very last sentence suddenly illumi¬ 
nates the whole story. His style is quick, nervous, often 
slangy; he is wonderfully dextrous in hitting just the right 
word or phrase. His descriptions are notable for telling much 
in a few words. He has almost established a definite type 
of short story writing, and in many of the stories now written 
one may clearly see the influence of 0 . Henry. 


IN POLITICS 


Politics is democracy in action. If we believe in democracy, 
we must recognize in politics the instrument, however imper¬ 
fect, through which democracy works. Brand Whitlock knew 
politics, first as a political reporter, then as candidate for 
mayor in four campaigns, in each of which he was successful. 
Under his administration the city of Toledo became a better 
place to live in. In The Gold Brick he describes a municipal 
campaign, as seen from the point of view of the newspaper 
office. 


THE GOLD BRICK 


BY 

Brand Whitlock 

Ten thousand dollars a year! Neil Kittrell left the office 
of the Morning Telegraph in a daze. He was insensible of 
the raw February air, heedless of sloppy pavements, the gray 
day had suddenly turned gold. He could not realize it all at 
once; ten thousand a year—for him and Edith! His heart 
swelled with love of Edith, she had sacrificed so much to 
become the wife of a man who had tried to make an artist 
of himself, and of whom fate, or economic determinism, or 
something, had made a cartoonist. What a surprise for her! 
He must hurry home. 

In this swelling of his heart he felt a love not only of 
Edith but of the whole world. The people he met seemed 
dear to him; he felt friendly with every one, and beamed on 
perfect strangers with broad, cheerful smiles. He stopped to 
buy some flowers for Edith—daffodils, or tulips, which promised 
spring, and he took the daffodils, because the girl said: 

“ I think yellow is such a spirituelle color, don’t you? ” 
and inclined her head in a most artistic manner. 

But daffodils, after all, which would have been much the 
day before, seemed insufficient in the light of new prosperity, 
and Kittrell bought a large azalea, beautiful in its graceful 
spread of pink blooms. 

“ Where shall I send it? ” asked the girl, whose cheeks were 
as pink as azaleas themselves. 

“ I think I’ll call a cab and take it to her myself,” said 
Kittrell. 

And she sighed over the romance of this rich young gentleman 


91 


92 


AMERICANS ALL 


and the girl of the azalea, who, no doubt, was as beautiful as 
the young woman who was playing Lottie, the Poor Saleslady 
at the Lyceum that very week. 

Kittrell and the azalea bowled along Claybourne Avenue; he 
leaned back on the cushions, and adopted the expression of 
ennui appropriate to that thoroughfare. Would Edith now 
prefer Claybourne Avenue? With ten thousand a year they 
could, perhaps—and yet, at first it would be best not to put 
on airs, but to go right on as they were, in the flat. Then the 
thought came to him that now, as the cartoonist on the Tele¬ 
graph, his name would become as well known in Claybourne 
Avenue as it had been in the homes of the poor and humble 
during his years on the Post. And his thoughts flew to those 
homes where tired men at evening looked for his cartoons and 
children laughed at his funny pictures. It gave him a pang; 
he had felt a subtle bond between himself and all those thou¬ 
sands who read the Post. It was hard to leave them. The Post 
might be yellow, but as the girl had said, yellow was a spirit¬ 
ual color, and the Post brought something into their lives— 
lives that were scorned by the Telegraph and by these people on 
the avenue. Could he make new friends here where the cartoons 
he drew and the Post that printed them had been contemned, 
if not despised? His mind flew back to the dingy office of 
the Post ; to the boys there, the whole good-natured, happy- 
go-lucky gang; and to Hardy—ah, Hardy!— who had been so 
good to him, and given him his big chance, had taken such pains 
and interest, helping him with ideas and suggestions, criticism 
and sympathy. To tell Hardy that he was going to leave him, 
here on the eve of the campaign—and Clayton, the mayor, he 
would have to tell him, too—oh, the devil! Why must he 
think of these things now? 

After all, when he had reached home, and had run up-stairs 
with the news and the azalea, Edith did not seem delighted. 

“ But, dearie, business is business,” he urged, “ and we need 
the money! ” 


THE GOLD BRICK 


93 

“Yes, I know; doubtless you’re right. Only please don’t 
say ‘ business is business;’ it isn’t like you, and—” 

“ But think what it will mean—ten thousand a year! ” 

“ Oh, Neil, I’ve lived on ten thousand a year before, and I 
never had half the fun that I had when we were getting along 
on twelve hundred.” 

“ Yes, but then we were always dreaming of the day when 
I’d make a lot; we lived on that hope, didn’t we? ” 

Edith laughed. “ You used to say we lived on love.” 

“ You’re not serious.” He turned to gaze moodily out of 
the window. And then she left the azalea, and perched on the 
flat arm of his chair. 

“ Dearest,” she said, “ I am serious. I know all this means 
to you. We’re human, and we don’t like to ‘ chip at crusts 
like Hindus,’ even for the sake of youth and art. I never 
had illusions about love in a cottage and all that. Only, dear, 
I have been happy, so very happy, with you, because—well, 
because I was living in an atmosphere of honest purpose, hon¬ 
est ambition, and honest desire to do some good thing in the 
world. I had never known such an atmosphere before. At 
home, you know, father and Uncle James and the boys—well, 
it was all money, money, money with them, and they couldn’t 
understand why I—” 

“ Could marry a poor newspaper artist? That’s just the 
point.” 

She put her hand to his lips. 

“Now, dear! If they couldn’t understand, so much the 
worse for them. If they thought it meant sacrifice to me, they 
were mistaken. I have been happy in this little flat; only—” 
she leaned back and inclined her head with her eyes asquint— 
“ only the paper in this room is atrocious; it’s a typical land¬ 
lord’s selection—McGaw picked it out. You see what it 
means to be merely rich.” 

She was so pretty thus that he kissed her, and then she 
went on: 


94 


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“ And so, dear, if I didn’t seem to be as impressed and de¬ 
lighted as you hoped to find me, it is because I was thinking 
of Mr. Hardy and the poor, dear common little Post, and 
then— of Mr. Clayton. Did you think of him? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You’ll have to—to cartoon him? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

The fact he had not allowed himself to face was close to 
both of them, and the subject was dropped until, just as he 
was going down-town—this time to break the news to Hardy— 
he went into the room he sarcastically said he might begin to 
call his studio, now that he was getting ten thousand a year, 
to look for a sketch he had promised Nolan for the sporting 
page. And there on his drawing-board was an unfinished car¬ 
toon, a drawing of the strong face of John Clayton. He had 
begun it a few days before to use on the occasion of Clayton’s 
renomination. It had been a labor of love, and Kittrell sud¬ 
denly realized how good it was. He had put into it all of his 
belief in Clayton, all of his devotion to the cause for which 
Clayton toiled and sacrificed, and in the simple lines he ex¬ 
perienced the artist’s ineffable felicity; he had shown how 
good, how noble, how true a man Clayton was. All at once 
he realized the sensation the cartoon would produce, how it 
would delight and hearten Clayton’s followers, how it would 
please Hardy, and how it would touch Clayton. It would be 
a tribute to the man and the friendship, but now a tribute 
broken, unfinished. Kittrell gazed a moment longer, and in 
that moment Edith came. 

“The dear, beautiful soul! ” she exclaimed softly. “Neil, 
it is wonderful. It is not a cartoon; it is a portrait. It shows 
what you might do with a brush.” 

Kittrell could not speak, and he turned the drawing-board 
to the wall. 

When he had gone, Edith sat and thought—of Neil, of the 
new position, of Clayton. He had loved Neil, and been so proud 


THE GOLD BRICK 


95 

of his work; he had shown a frank, naive pleasure in the car¬ 
toons Neil had made of him. That last time he was there, 
thought Edith, he had said that without Neil the “ good old 
cause,” as he called it, using Whitman’s phrase, could never 
have triumphed in that town. And now, would he come again? 
Would he ever stand in that room and, with his big, hearty 
laugh, clasp an arm around Neil’s shoulder, or speak of her 
in his good friendly way as “the little woman? ” Would he 
come now, in the terrible days of the approaching campaign, 
for rest and sympathy—come as he used to come in other 
campaigns, worn and weary from all the brutal opposition, 
the vilification and abuse and mud-slinging? She closed her 
eyes. She could not think that far. 

Kittrell found the task of telling Hardy just as difficult as 
he expected it to be, but by some mercy it did not last long. 
Explanation had not been necessary; he had only to make the 
first hesitating approaches, and Hardy understood. Hardy 
was, in a way, hurt; Kittrell saw that, and rushed to his own 
defense: 

“ I hate to go, old man. I don’t like it a little bit—but, 
you know, business is business, and we need the money.” 

He even tried to laugh as he advanced this last conclusive 
reason, and Hardy, for all he showed in voice or phrase, may 
have agreed with him. 

“ It’s all right, Kit,” he said. “ I’m sorry; I wish we could 
pay you more, but—well, good luck.” 

That was all. Kittrell gathered up the few articles he had 
at the office, gave Nolan his sketch, bade the boys good-by— 
bade them good-by as if he were going on a long journey, 
never to see them more—and then he went. 

After he had made the break it did not seem so bad as 
he had anticipated. At first things went on smoothly enough. 
The campaign had not opened, and he was free to exercise his 
talents outside the political field. He drew cartoons dealing 
with banal subjects, touching with the gentle satire of his 


AMERICANS ALL 


96 

humorous pencil foibles which all the world agreed about, and 
let vital questions alone. And he and Edith enjoyed themselves: 
indulged oftener in things they loved; went more frequently 
to the theater; appeared at recitals; dined now and then down¬ 
town. They began to realize certain luxuries they had not 
known for a long time—some he himself had never known, 
some that Edith had not known since she left her father’s 
home to become his bride. In more subtle ways, too, Kittrell 
felt the change: there was a sense of larger leisure; the future 
beamed with a broader and brighter light; he formed plans, 
among which the old dream of going ere long to Paris for 
serious study took its dignified place. And then there was the 
sensation his change had created in the newspaper world; 
that the cartoons signed “ Kit,” which formerly appeared in 
the Post, should now adorn the broad page of the Telegraph 
was a thing to talk about at the press club; the fact of his 
large salary got abroad in that little world as well, and, after 
the way of that world, managed to exaggerate itself, as most 
facts did. He began to be sensible of attentions from men of 
prominence—small things, mere nods in the street, perhaps, or 
smiles in the theater foyer, but enough to show that they 
recognized him. What those children of the people, those 
working-men and women who used to be his unknown and 
admiring friends in the old days on the Post, thought of him— 
whether they missed him, whether they deplored his change as 
an apostasy or applauded it as a promotion—he did not know. 
He did not like to think about it. 

But March came, and the politicians began to bluster like 
the season. Late one afternoon he was on his way to the 
office with a cartoon, the first in which he had seriously to 
attack Clayton. Benson, the managing editor of the Tele¬ 
graph, had conceived it, and Kittrell had worked on it that day 
in sickness of heart. Every line of this new presentation of 
Clayton had cut him like some biting acid; but he had worked 
on, trying to reassure himself with the argument that he was 


THE GOLD BRICK 


97 


a mere agent, devoid of personal responsibility. But it had 
been hard, and when Edith, after her custom, had asked to 
see it, he had said: 

“ Oh, you don’t want to see it; it’s no good.” 

11 Is it of—him? ” she had asked. 

And when he nodded she had gone away without another 
word. Now, as he hurried through the crowded streets, he was 
conscious that it was no good indeed; and he was divided be¬ 
tween the artist’s regret and the friend’s joy in the fact. But 
it made him tremble. Was his hand to forget its cunning? 
And then, suddenly, he heard a familiar voice, and there be¬ 
side him, with his hand on his shoulder, stood the mayor. 

“ Why, Neil, my boy, how are you? ” he said, and he took 
Kittrell’s hand as warmly as ever. For a moment Kittrell was 
relieved, and then his heart sank; for he had a quick realization 
that it was the coward within him that felt the relief, and the 
man the sickness. If Clayton had reproached him, or cut him, 
it would have made it easier; but Clayton did none of these 
things, and Kittrell was irresistibly drawn to the subject him¬ 
self. 

“You heard of my—new job? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” said Clayton, “ I heard.” 

“ Well—” Kittrell began. 

“ I’m sorry,” Clayton said. 

“ So was I,” Kittrell hastened to say. “ But I felt it—well, 
a duty, some way—to Edith. You know—we—need the 
money.” And he gave the cynical laugh that went with the 
argument. 

“ What does she think? Does she feel that way about it? ” 

Kittrell laughed, not cynically now, but uneasily and with 
embarrassment, for Clayton’s blue eyes were on him, those 
eyes that could look into men and understand them so. 

“ Of course you know,” Kittrell went on nervously, “ there 
is nothing personal in this. We newspaper fellows simply do 
what we are told; we obey orders like soldiers, you know. 


AMERICANS ALL 


98 

With the policy of the paper we have nothing to do. Just 
like Dick Jennings, who was a red-hot free-trader and used to 
write free-trade editorials for the Times —he went over to the 
Telegraph, you remember, and writes all those protection argu¬ 
ments.” 

The mayor did not seem to be interested in Dick Jennings, 
or in the ethics of his profession. 

“ Of course, you know I’m for you, Mr. Clayton, just ex¬ 
actly as I’ve always been. I’m going to vote for you.” 

This did not seem to interest the mayor, either. 

“ And, maybe, you know—I thought, perhaps,” he snatched 
at this bright new idea that had come to him just in the nick 
of time; “ that I might help you by my cartoons in the Tele¬ 
graph; that is, I might keep them from being as bad as they 
might—” 

“ But that wouldn’t be dealing fairly with your new em¬ 
ployers, Neil,” the mayor said. 

Kittrell was making more and more a mess of this whole 
miserable business, and he was basely glad when they reached 
the corner. 

“ Well, good-by, my boy,” said the mayor, as they parted. 
“ Remember me to the little woman.” 

Kittrell watched him as he went on down the avenue, swing¬ 
ing along in his free way, the broad felt hat he wore riding 
above all the other hats in the throng that filled the sidewalk; 
and Kittrell sighed in deep depression. 

When he turned in his cartoon, Benson scanned it a moment, 
cocked his head this side and that, puffed his briar pipe, and 
finally said: 

“ I’m afraid this is hardly up to you. This figure of Clay¬ 
ton, here—it hasn’t got the stuff in it. You want to show 
him as he is. We want the people to know what a four- 
flushing, hypocritical, demagogical blatherskite he is—with all 
his rot about the people and their damned rights! ” 

Benson was all unconscious of the inconsistency of having 


THE GOLD BRICK 


99 

concern for a people he so despised, and Kittrell did not ob¬ 
serve it, either. He was on the point of defending Clayton, 
but he restrained himself and listened to Benson’s suggestions. 
He remained at the office for two hours, trying to change the 
cartoon to Benson’s satisfaction, with a growing hatred of the 
work and a disgust with himself that now and then almost 
drove him to mad destruction. He felt like splashing the piece 
with India ink, or ripping it with his knife. But he worked on, 
and submitted it again. He had failed, of course; failed to 
express in it that hatred of a class which Benson unconsciously 
disguised as a hatred of Clayton, a hatred which Kittrell could 
not express because he did not feel it; and he failed because 
art deserts her devotees when they are false to truth. 

“ Well, it’ll have to do,” said Benson, as he looked it 
over; “ but let’s have a little more to the next one. Damn it! 
I wish I could draw. I’d cartoon the crook! ” 

In default of which ability, Benson set himself to write one 
of those savage editorials in which he poured out on Clayton 
that venom of which he seemed to have such an inexhaustible 
supply. 

But on one point Benson was right: Kittrell was not up to 
himself. As the campaign opened, as the city was swept with 
the excitement of it, with meetings at noon-day and at night, 
office-seekers flying about in automobiles, walls covered with 
pictures of candidates, hand-bills scattered in the streets to 
swirl in the wild March winds, and men quarreling over 
whether Clayton or Ellsworth should be mayor, Kittrell had to 
draw a political cartoon each day; and as he struggled with 
his work, less and less the old joy came to cheer and spur him 
on. To read the ridicule, the abuse, which the Telegraph 
heaped on Clayton, the distortion of facts concerning his can¬ 
didature, the unfair reports of his meetings, sickened him, and 
more than all, he was filled with disgust as he tried to match 
in caricature these libels of the man he so loved and honored. 
It was bad enough to have to flatter Clayton’s opponent, to 


100 


AMERICANS ALL 


picture him as a noble, disinterested character, ready to sacrifice 
himself for the public weal. Into his pictures of this man, 
attired in the long black coat of conventional respectability, 
with the smug face of pharisaism, he could get nothing but cant 
and hypocrisy; but in his caricatures of Clayton there was that 
which pained him worse—disloyalty, untruth, and now and 
then, to the discerning few who knew the tragedy of Kittrell’s 
soul, there was pity. And thus his work declined in value; 
lacking all sincerity, all faith in itself or its purpose, it became 
false, uncertain, full of jarring notes, and, in short, never once 
rang true. As for Edith, she never discussed his work now; she 
spoke of the campaign little, and yet he knew she was deeply 
concerned, and she grew hot with resentment at the methods 
of the Telegraph. Her only consolation was derived from the 
Post, which of course, supported Clayton; and the final drop of 
bitterness in Kittrell’s cup came one evening when he realized 
that she was following with sympathetic interest the cartoons 
in that paper. 

For the Post had a new cartoonist, Banks, a boy whom 
Hardy had picked up somewhere and was training to the work 
Kittrell had laid down. To Kittrell there was a cruel fas¬ 
cination in the progress Banks was making; he watched it 
with a critical, professional eye, at first with amusement, then 
with surprise, and now at last, in the discovery of Edith’s in¬ 
terest, with a keen jealousy of which he was ashamed. The boy 
was crude and untrained; his work was not to be compared 
with Kittrell’s, master of line that he was, but Kittrell saw 
that it had the thing his work now lacked, the vital, primal 
thing—sincerity, belief, love. The spark was there, and Kit¬ 
trell knew how Hardy would nurse that spark and fan it, 
and keep it alive and burning until it should eventually blaze 
up in a fine white flame. And Kittrell realized, as the days 
went by, that Banks’ work was telling, and that his own was 
failing. He had, from the first missed the atmosphere of the 
Post, missed the camaraderie of the congenial spirits there, 


THE GOLD BRICK 


IOI 


animated by a common purpose, inspired and led by Hardy, 
whom they all loved—loved as he himself once loved him, loved 
as he loved him still—and dared not look him in the face when 
they met! 

He found the atmosphere of the Telegraph alien and distaste¬ 
ful. There all was different; the men had little joy in their 
work, little interest in it, save perhaps the newspaper man’s 
inborn love of a good story or a beat. They were all cynical, 
without loyalty or faith; they secretly made fun of the Tele - 
graph, of its editors and owners; they had no belief in its 
cause; and its pretensions to respectability, its parade of virtue, 
excited only their derision. And slowly it began to dawn 
on Kittrell that the great moral law worked always and every¬ 
where, even on newspapers, and that there was reflected in¬ 
evitably and logically in the work of the men on that staff 
the hatred, the lack of principle, the bigotry and intolerance 
of its proprietors; and this same lack of principle tainted and 
made meretricious his own work, and enervated the editorials 
so that the Telegraph, no matter how carefully edited or how 
dignified in typographical appearance, was, nevertheless, without 
real influence in the community. 

Meanwhile Clayton was gaining ground. It was less than two 
weeks before election. The campaign waxed more and more 
bitter, and as the forces opposed to him foresaw defeat, they 
became ugly in spirit, and desperate. The Telegraph took on 
a tone more menacing and brutal, and Kittrell knew that the 
crisis had come. The might of the powers massed against 
Clayton appalled Kittrell; they thundered at him through 
many brazen mouths, but Clayton held on his high way un¬ 
perturbed. He was speaking by day and night to thousands. 
Such meetings he had never had before. Kittrell had visions 
of him before those immense audiences in halls, in tents, in 
the raw open air of that rude March weather, making his ap¬ 
peals to the heart of the great mass. A fine, splendid, ro¬ 
mantic figure he was, striking to the imagination, this cham- 


102 


AMERICANS ALL 


pion of the people’s cause, and Kittrell longed for the lost 
chance. Oh, for one day on the Post now! 

One morning at breakfast, as Edith read the Telegraph, Kit¬ 
trell saw the tears well slowly in her brown eyes. 

“ Oh,” she said, “ it is shameful! ” She clenched her little 
fists. “ Oh, if I were only a man I’d—” She could not in her 
impotent feminine rage say what she would do; she could only 
grind her teeth. Kittrell bent his head over his plate; his 
coffee choked him. 

“ Dearest,” she said presently, in another tone, “ tell me, 
how is he? Do you—ever see him? Will he win? ” 

“ No, I never see him. But he’ll win; I wouldn’t worry.” 

“ He used to come here,” she went on, “ to rest a moment, 
to escape from all this hateful confusion and strife. He is 
killing himself! And they aren’t worth it—those ignorant 
people—they aren’t worth such sacrifices.” 

He got up from the table and turned away, and then 
realizing quickly, she flew to his side and put her arms about 
his neck and said: 

“ Forgive me, dearest, I didn’t mean—only—” 

“ Oh, Edith,” he said, “ this is killing me. I feel like a dog.” 

“Don’t dear; he is big enough, and good enough; he will 
understand.” 

“Yes; that only makes it harder, only makes it hurt the 
more.” 

That afternoon, in the car, he heard no talk but of the 
election; and down-town, in a cigar store where he stopped for 
cigarettes, he heard some men talking mysteriously, in the 
hollow voice of rumor, of some sensation, some scandal. It 
alarmed him, and as he went into the office he met Manning, 
the Telegraph’s political man. 

“ Tell me, Manning,” Kittrell said, “ how does it look? ” 

“ Damn bad for us.” 

“ For us? ” 

“ Well, for our mob of burglars and second story workers 


THE GOLD BRICK 


103 

here—the gang we represent.” He took a cigarette from the 
box Kittrell was opening. 

“ And will he win? ” 

“ Will he win? ” said Manning, exhaling the words on the 
thin level stream of smoke that came from his lungs. “ Will 
he win? In a walk, I tell you. He’s got ’em beat to a stand¬ 
still right now. That’s the dope.” 

“ But what about this story of—” 

“Aw, that’s all a pipe-dream of Burns’. I’m running 
it in the morning, but it’s nothing; it’s a shine. They’re 
big fools to print it at all. But it’s their last card; they’re 
desperate. They won’t stop at anything, or at any crime, ex¬ 
cept those requiring courage. Burns is in there with Benson 
now; so is Salton, and old man Glenn, and the rest of the 
bunco family. They’re framing it up. When I saw old Glenn 
go in, with his white side-whiskers, I knew the widow and the 
orphan were in danger again, and that he was going bravely 
to the front for ’em. Say, that young Banks is cornin’, isn’t 
he? That’s a peach, that cartoon of his to-night.” 

Kittrell went on down the hall to the art-room to wait 
until Benson should be free. But it was not long until he 
was sent for, and as he entered the managing editor’s room 
he was instantly sensible of the somber atmosphere of a grave 
and solemn council of war. Benson introduced him to Glenn, 
the banker, to Salton, the party boss, and to Burns, the presi¬ 
dent of the street-car company; and as Kittrell sat down 
he looked about him, and could scarcely repress a smile as he 
recalled Manning’s estimate of Glenn. The old man sat there, 
as solemn and unctuous as ever he had in his pew at church. 
Benson, red of face, was more plainly perturbed, but Salton 
was as reserved, as immobile, as inscrutable as ever, his 
narrow, pointed face, with its vulpine expression, being perhaps 
paler than usual. Benson had on his desk before him the car¬ 
toon Kittrell had finished that day. 

“ Mr. Kittrell,” Benson began, “ we’ve been talking over the 


104 


AMERICANS ALL 


political situation, and I was showing these gentlemen this 
cartoon. It isn’t, I fear, in your best style; it lacks the force, 
the argument, we’d like just at this time. That isn’t the Tele¬ 
graph Clayton, Mr. Kittrell.” He pointed with the amber stem 
of his pipe. “ Not at all. Clayton is a strong, smart, un¬ 
scrupulous, dangerous man! We’ve reached a crisis in this cam¬ 
paign; if we can’t turn things in the next three days, we’re 
lost, that’s all; we might as well face it. To-morrow we make 
an important revelation concerning the character of Clayton, 
and we want to follow it up the morning after by a cartoon 
that will be a stunner, a clencher. We have discussed it here 
among ourselves, and this is our idea.” 

Benson drew a crude, bald outline, indicating the cartoon 
they wished Kittrell to draw. The idea was so coarse, so 
brutal, so revolting, that Kittrell stood aghast, and, as he 
stood, he was aware of Salton’s little eyes fixed on him. Benson 
waited; they all waited. 

“ Well,” said Benson, “ what do you think of it? ” 

Kittrell paused an instant, and then said: 

“ I won’t draw it; that’s what I think of it.” 

Benson flushed angrily and looked up at him. 

“ We are paying you a very large salary, Mr. Kittrell, and 
your work, if you will pardon me, has not been up to what 
we were led to expect.” 

“ You are quite right, Mr. Benson, but I can’t draw that 
cartoon.” 

“ Well, great God! ” yelled Burns, “ what have we got here— 
a gold brick? ” He rose with a vivid sneer on his red face, 
plunged his hands in his pockets, and took two or three ner¬ 
vous strides across the room. Kittrell looked at him, and 
slowly his eyes blazed out of a face that had gone white on the 
instant. 

“ What did you say, sir? ” he demanded. 

Burns thrust his red face, with its prognathic jaw, menacingly 
toward Kittrell. 


THE GOLD BRICK 


105 


“ I said that in you we’d got a gold brick.” 

“ You? ” said Kittrell. “ What have you to do with it? 
I don’t work for you.” 

“ You don’t? Well, I guess it’s us that puts up—” 

“ Gentlemen! Gentlemen! ” said Glenn, waving a white, 
pacificatory hand. 

“ Yes, let me deal with this, if you please,” said Benson,* 
looking hard at Burns. The street-car man sneered again, then, 
in ostentatious contempt, looked out the window. And in the 
stillness Benson continued: 

“ Mr. Kittrell, think a minute. Is your decision final? ” 

“ It is final, Mr. Benson,” said Kittrell. “ And as for you, 
Burns,” he glared angrily at the man, “ I wouldn’t draw that 
cartoon for all the dirty money that all the bribing street-car 
companies in the world could put into Mr. Glenn’s bank here. 
Good evening, gentlemen.” 

It was not until he stood again in his own home that Kit¬ 
trell felt the physical effects which the spiritual squalor 
of such a scene was certain to produce in a nature like 
his. 

“Neil! What is the matter? ” Edith fluttered toward him 
in alarm. 

He sank into a chair, and for a moment he looked as if 
he would faint, but he looked wanly up at her and said: 

“Nothing; I’m all right; just a little weak. I’ve gone 
through a sickening, horrible scene—” 

“ Dearest! ” 

“And I’m off the Telegraph —and a man once more! ” 

He bent over, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his 
hands, and when Edith put her calm, caressing hand on his 
brow, she found that it was moist from nervousness. Presently 
he was able to tell her the whole story. 

“It was, after all, Edith, a fitting conclusion to my ex¬ 
perience on the Telegraph. I suppose, though, that to people 
who are used to ten thousand a year such scenes are nothing 


io6 


AMERICANS ALL 


at all.” She saw in this trace of his old humor that he was 
himself again, and she hugged his head to her bosom. 

“ Oh, dearest,” she said, “ I’m proud of you—and happy 
again.” 

They were, indeed, both happy, happier than they had been 
in weeks. 

The next morning after breakfast, she saw by his manner, 
by the humorous, almost comical expression about his eyes, 
that he had an idea. In this mood of satisfaction—this mood 
that comes too seldom in the artist’s life—she knew it was wise 
to let him alone. And he lighted his pipe and went to work. 
She heard him now and then, singing or whistling or hum¬ 
ming; she scented his pipe, then cigarettes; then, at last, after 
two hours, he called in a loud, triumphant tone: 

“ Oh, Edith! ” 

She was at the door in an instant, and, waving his hand 
grandly at his drawing-board, he turned to her with that ex¬ 
pression which connotes the greatest joy gods or mortals can 
know—the joy of beholding one’s own work and finding it good. 
He had, as she saw, returned to the cartoon of Clayton he 
had laid aside when the tempter came; and now it was finished. 
Its simple lines revealed Clayton’s character, as the sufficient 
answer to all the charges the Telegraph might make against 
him. Edith leaned against the door and looked long and 
critically. 

“It was fine before,” she said presently; “it’s better now. 
Before it was a portrait of the man; this shows his soul.” 

“ Well, it’s how he looks to me,” said Neil, “ after a month 
in which to appreciate him.” 

“ But what,” she said, stooping and peering at the edge of 
the drawing, where, despite much knife-scraping, vague figures 
appeared, “ what’s that? ” 

“ Oh, I’m ashamed to tell you,” he said. “ I’ll have to paste 
over that before it’s electrotyped. You see, I had a notion of 
putting in the gang, and I drew four little figures—Benson, 


THE GOLD BRICK 


107 


Burns, Salton and Glenn; they were plotting—oh, it was 
foolish and unworthy. I decided I didn’t want anything of 
hatred in it—just as he wouldn’t want anything of hatred in it; 
so I rubbed them out.” 

“Well, I’m glad. It is beautiful; it makes up for every¬ 
thing; it’s an appreciation—worthy of the man.” 

When Kittrell entered the office of the Post, the boys greeted 
him with delight, and his presence made a sensation, for there 
had been rumors of the break which the absence of a “ Kit ” 
cartoon in the Telegraph that morning had confirmed. But, 
if Hardy was surprised, his surprise was swallowed up in his 
joy, and Kittrell was grateful to him for the delicacy with 
which he touched the subject that consumed the newspaper 
and political world with curiosity. 

“ I’m glad, Kit,” was all that he said. “ You know that.” 

Then he forgot everything in the cartoon, and he showed his 
instant recognition of its significance by snatching out his 
watch, pushing a button, and saying to Garland, who came 
to the door in his shirtsleeves: 

“ Tell Nic to hold the first edition for a five-column first- 
page cartoon. And send this up right away.” 

They had a last look at it before it went, and after gazing 
a moment in silence Hardy said: 

“ It’s the greatest thing you ever did, Kit, and it comes at 
the psychological moment. It’ll elect him.” 

“ Oh, he was elected anyhow.” 

Hardy shook his head, and in the movement Kittrell saw 
how the strain of the campaign had told on him. “No, he 
wasn’t; the way they’ve been hammering him is something 
fierce; and the Telegraph —well, your cartoons and all, you 
know.” 

“ But my cartoons’ in the Telegraph were rotten. Any work 
that’s not sincere, not intellectually honest-” 

Hardy interrupted him: 

“Yes; but, Kit, you’re so good that your rotten is better 


io8 AMERICANS ALL 

than 'most anybody’s best.” He smiled, and Kittrell blushed 
and looked away. 

Hardy was right. The “ Kit ” cartoon, back in the Post , 
created its sensation, and after it appeared the political re¬ 
porters said it had started a landslide to Clayton; that the bet¬ 
ting was 4 to i and no takers, and that it was all over but the 
shouting. 

That night, as they were at dinner, the telephone rang, and 
in a minute Neil knew by Edith’s excited and delighted reitera¬ 
tion of “ yes,” “ yes,” who had called up. And he then heard 
her say: 

“ Indeed I will; I’ll come every night and sit in the front 
seat.” 

When Kittrell displaced Edith at the telephone, he heard 
the voice of John Clayton, lower in register and somewhat husky 
after four weeks’ speaking, but more musical than ever in Kit- 
trell’s ears when it said: 

“ I just told the little woman, Neil, that I didn’t know how 
to say it, so I wanted her to thank you for me. It was beauti¬ 
ful in you, and I wish I were worthy of it; it was simply 
your own good soul expressing itself.” 

And it was the last delight to Kittrell to hear that voice 
and to know that all was well. 

But one question remained unsettled. Kittrell had been on 
the Telegraph a month, and his contract differed from that 
ordinarily made by the members of a newspaper staff in 
that he was paid by the year, though in monthly instalments. 
Kittrell knew that he had broken his contract on grounds 
which the sordid law would not see or recognize and the aver¬ 
age court think absurd, and that the Telegraph might legally* 
refuse to pay him at all. He hoped the Telegraph would do 
this! But it did not; on the contrary, he received the next day 
a check for his month’s work. He held it up for Edith’s 
inspection. 

“ Of course, I’ll have to send it back,” he said. 


THE GOLD BRICK 


109 


“ Certainly.” 

“ Do you think me quixotic? ” 

“ Well, we’re poor enough as it is—let’s have some luxuries; 
let’s be quixotic until after election, at least.” 

“ Sure,” said Neil; “just what I was thinking. I’m going 
to do a cartoon every day for the Post until election day, and 
I’m not going to take a cent. I don’t want to crowd Banks out, 
you know, and I want to do my part for Clayton and the 
cause, and do it, just once, for the pure love of the thing.” 

Those last days of the campaign were, indeed, luxuries to 
Kittrell and to Edith, days of work and fun and excitement. 
All day Kittrell worked on his cartoons, and in the evening 
they went to Clayton’s meetings. The experience was a revela¬ 
tion to them both—the crowds, the waiting for the singing of 
the automobile’s siren, the wild cheers that greeted Clayton, 
and then his speech, his appeals to the best there was in men. 
He had never made such speeches, and long afterward Edith 
could hear those cheers and see the faces of those working¬ 
men aglow with the hope, the passion, the fervent religion of 
democracy. And those days came to their glad climax that 
night when they met at the office of the Post to receive the 
returns, in an atmosphere quivering with excitement, with 
messenger boys and reporters coming and going, and in the 
street outside an immense crowd, swaying and rocking between 
the walls on either side, with screams and shouts and mad 
huzzas, and the wild blowing of horns—all the hideous, happy 
noise an American election-night crowd can make. 

Late in the evening Clayton had made his way, somehow 
unnoticed, through the crowd, and entered the office. He 
was happy in the great triumph he would not accept as personal, 
claiming it always for the cause; but as he dropped into the 
chair Hardy pushed toward him, they all saw how weary he 
was. 

Just at that moment the roar in the street below swelled to 
a mighty crescendo, and Hardy cried: 


/ 


no 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ Look! ” 

They ran to the window. The boys up-stairs who were 
manipulating the stereopticon, had thrown on the screen an 
enormous picture of Clayton, the portrait Kittrell had drawn for 
his cartoon. 

“ Will you say now there isn’t the personal note in it? ” 
Edith asked. 

Clayton glanced out the window, across the dark, surging 
street, at the picture. 

“Oh, it’s not me they’re cheering for,” he said; “it’s for 
Kit, here.” 

“Well, perhaps some of it’s for him,” Edith admitted 
loyally. 

They were silent, seized irresistibly by the emotion that 
mastered the mighty crowd in the dark streets below. Edith 
was strangely moved. Presently she could speak: 

“ Is there anything sweeter in life than to know that you 
have done a good thing—and done it well? ” 

“Yes,” said Clayton, “just one: to have a few friends who 
understand.” 

“ You are right,” said Edith. “ It is so with art, and it must 
be so with life; it makes an art of life.” 

It was dark enough there by the window for her to slip her 
hand into that of Neil, who had been musing silently on the 
crowd. 

“ I can never say again,” she said softly, “ that those people 
are not worth sacrifice. They are worth all; they are every¬ 
thing; they are the hope of the world; and their longings and 
their needs, and the possibility of bringing them to pass, are 
all that give significance to life.” 

“ That’s what America is for,” said Clayton, “ and it’s worth 
while to be allowed to help even in a little way to make, as 
old Walt says, ‘ a nation of friends, of equals.’ ” 


BRAND WHITLOCK 


Brand Whitlock, lawyer, politician, author and ambassa¬ 
dor, was born in Urbana, Ohio, March 4, 1869. His father, 
Rev. Elias D. Whitlock, was a minister of power and a man 
of strong convictions. Brand was educated partly in the public 
schools, partly by private teaching. He never went to college, 
but this did not mean that his education stopped; he kept on 
studying, and to such good purpose that in 1916 Brown Uni¬ 
versity gave him the degree of Doctor of Laws. Like many other 
writers, he received his early training in newspaper work. At 
eighteen he became a reporter on a Toledo paper, and three 
years later was reporter and political correspondent for the 
Chicago Herald. While in Chicago he was a member of the 
old Whitechapel Club, a group of newspaper men which in¬ 
cluded F. P. Dunne, the creator of Mr. Dooley; Alfred Henry 
Lewis, author of Wolfville; and George Ade, whose Fables in 
Slang were widely popular a few years ago. 

He was strongly drawn to the law, and in 1893 went to 
Springfield, Illinois, and entered a law office as a student. 
He was admitted to the bar, and shortly after went to 
Toledo, Ohio, to practice. In eight years he had estab¬ 
lished himself as a successful lawyer, and something more. 
He was recognized as a man of high executive ability, and 
as being absolutely “ square.” Such men are none too 
common, and Toledo decided that it needed him in the 
mayor’s chair. Without a political machine, without a plat¬ 
form, and without a party, he was elected mayor in 1905, 
reelected in 1907, again in 1909, again in 1911—and could 
probably have had the office for life if he had been willing to 
accept it. In the meantime he had written several successful 
novels; he wanted more time for writing, and when in 1913 he 


hi 


112 


AMERICANS ALL 


was offered the post of United States Minister to Belgium, he 
accepted, thinking that he would find in this position an op¬ 
portunity to observe life from a new angle, and leisure for 
literary work. In August 1914 he was on his vacation, and 
had begun work on a new novel. In his own words: 

I had the manuscript of my novel before me. ... It was some¬ 
how just beginning to take form, beginning to show some signs of 
life; at times some characters in it gave evidence of being human 
and alive; they were beginning to act now and then spontaneously, 
beginning to say and to do things after the manner of human 
beings; the long vista before me, the months of laborious drudging 
toil and pain, the long agony of effort necessary to write any book, 
even a poor one, was beginning to appear less weary, less futile; 
there was the first faint glow of the joy of creative effort. 

and then suddenly the telephone bell rang, and*announced that 
the Archduke of Austria had been assassinated at Sarajevo. 

The rest of the story belongs to history. How he went back 
to Brussels; how when the city seemed doomed, and all the 
government officials left, he stayed on; how when the city was 
preparing to resist by force, he went to Burgomaster Max and 
convinced him that it was useless, and so saved the city from 
the fate of Louvain; how he took charge of the relief work, 
how the King of Belgium thanked him for his services to the 
country; how the city of Brussels in gratitude gave him a pic¬ 
ture by Van Dyck, a priceless thing, which he accepted—not 
for himself but for his home city of Toledo; how after the 
war, he went back, not as Minister but as Ambassador,— 
all these are among the proud memories of America’s part in 
the World War. 

Brand Whitlock is so much more than an author that it 
is with an effort that we turn to consider his literary work. 
His first book, The Thirteenth District , published in 1902, was 
a novel of American politics; it contains a capital description 
of a convention, and shows the strategy of political leaders as 
seen by a keen observer. In Her Infinite Variety he dealt with 


BRAND WHITLOCK 


ii 3 

the suffrage movement as it was in 1904, with determined 
women seeking the ballot, and equally determined women 
working just as hard to keep it away from them. The Happy 
Average was a story of an every-day American couple: they 
were not rich, nor famous, nor divorced,—yet the author 
thinks their story is typical of most American lives. The 
Turn of the Balance is a novel that grew out of his legal ex¬ 
periences: it deals with the underworld of crime, and often in 
a depressing way. It reflects the author’s belief that the pres¬ 
ent organization of society, and our methods of administer¬ 
ing justice, are the cause of much of the misery in the world. 
Following these novels came two volumes of short stories, 
The Gold Brick and The Fall Guy: both deal with various 
aspects of American life of to-day. In 1914 he published 
an autobiography under the title Forty Years of It. This is 
interesting as a picture of political life of the period in Ohio. 
His latest book, Memories of Belgium under the German 
Occupation , tells the story of four eventful years. In all that 
trying time, each night, no matter how weary he was, he forced 
himself to set down the events of the day. From these records 
he wrote a book that by virtue of its first-hand information 
and its literary art ranks among the most important of the 
books called forth by the Great War. 




















THE TRAVELING SALESMAN 


The traveling salesman is a characteristic American type. 
We laugh at his stories, or we criticise him for his “ nerve,” 
but we do not always make allowance for the fact that his life 
is not an easy one, and that his occupation develops “ nerve ” 
just as an athlete’s work develops muscle. The best presenta¬ 
tion of the traveling salesman in fiction is found in the stories 
of Edna Ferber. And the fact that her “salesman” is a 
woman only adds to the interest of the stories. When ex- 
President Roosevelt read Miss Ferber’s book, he wrote her an 
enthusiastic letter telling her how much he admired Emma 
McChesney. We meet her in the first words of this story. 


HIS MOTHER’S SON 


BY 

Edna Ferber 

“ Full? ” repeated Emma McChesney (and if it weren’t for 
the compositor there’d be an exclamation point after that ques¬ 
tion mark). 

“ Sorry, Mrs. McChesney,” said the clerk, and he actually 
looked it, “ but there’s absolutely nothing stirring. We’re full 
up. The Benevolent Brotherhood of Bisons is holding its 
regular annual state convention here. We’re putting up cots 
in the hall.” 

Emma McChesney’s keen blue eyes glanced up from their 
inspection of the little bunch of mail which had just been 
handed her. “ Well, pick out a hall with a southern exposure 
and set up a cot or so for me,” she said, agreeably, “ because 
I’ve come to stay. After selling Featherloom Petticoats on the 
road for ten years I don’t see myself trailing up and down this 
town looking for a place to lay my head. I’ve learned this 
one large, immovable truth, and that is, that a hotel clerk is a 
hotel clerk. It makes no difference whether he is stuck back 
of a marble pillar and hidden by a gold vase full of thirty-six- 
inch American Beauty roses at the Knickerbocker, or setting 
the late fall fashions for men in Galesburg, Illinois.” 

By one small degree was the perfect poise of the peerless 
personage behind the register jarred. But by only one. He 
was a hotel night clerk. 

“ It won’t do you any good to get sore, Mrs. McChesney,” 
he began, suavely. “Now a man would-” 

“ But I’m not a man,” interrupted Emma McChesney. “ I’m 



n8 


AMERICANS ALL 


only doing a man’s work and earning a man’s salary and de¬ 
manding to be treated with as much consideration as you’d 
show a man.” 

The personage busied himself mightily with a pen, and a 
blotter, and sundry papers, as is the manner of personages 
when annoyed. “ I’d like to accommodate you; I’d like to do 
it.” 

“ Cheer up,” said Emma McChesney, “ you’re going to. 1 
don’t mind a little discomfort. Though I want to mention in 
passing that if there are any lady Bisons present you needn’t 
bank on doubling me up with them. I’ve had one experience 
of that kind. It was in Albia, Iowa. I’d sleep in the kitchen 
range before I’d go through another.” 

Up went the erstwhile falling poise. “You’re badly mis¬ 
taken, madam. I’m a member of this order myself, and a 
finer lot of fellows it has never been my pleasure to 
know.” 

“ Yes, I know,” drawled Emma McChesney. “ Do you 
know, the thing that gets me is the inconsistency of it. Along 
come a lot of boobs who never use a hotel the year around 
except to loaf in the lobby, and wear out the leather chairs, and 
use up the matches and toothpicks and get the baseball re¬ 
turns, and immediately you turn away a traveling man who 
uses a three-dollar-a-day room, with a sample room down¬ 
stairs for his stuff, who tips every porter and bell-boy in the 
place, asks for no favors, and who, if you give him a half¬ 
way decent cup of coffee for breakfast, will fall in love with 
the place and boom it all over the country. Half of your 
Benevolent Bisons are here on the European plan, with a 
view to patronizing the free-lunch counters or being asked to 
take dinner at the home of some local Bison whose wife has 
been cooking up on pies, and chicken salad and veal roast for 
the last week.” 

Emma McChesney leaned over the desk a little, and lowered 
her voice to the tone of confidence. “Now, I’m not in the 


HIS MOTHER’S SON 


xi 9 

habit of making a nuisance of myself like this. I don’t get 
so chatty as a rule, and I know that I could jump over to 
Monmouth and get first-class accommodations there. But just 
this once I’ve a good reason for wanting to make you and 
myself a little miserable. Y’see, my son is traveling with 
me this trip.” 

“ Son! ” echoed the clerk, staring. 

“ Thanks. That’s what they all do. After a while I’ll begin 
to believe that there must be something hauntingly beautiful 
and girlish about me or every one wouldn’t petrify when I an¬ 
nounce that I’ve a six-foot son attached to my apron-strings. 
He looks twenty-one, but he’s seventeen. He thinks the 
world’s rotten because he can’t grow one of those fuzzy little 
mustaches that the men are cultivating to match their hats. 
He’s down at the depot now, straightening out our baggage. 
Now I want to say this before he gets here. He’s been out 
with me just four days. Those four days have been a revela¬ 
tion, an eye-opener, and a series of rude jolts. He used to 
think that his mother’s job consisted of traveling in Pullmans, 
eating delicate viands turned out by the hotel chefs, and strew¬ 
ing Featherloom Petticoats along the path. I gave him plenty 
of money, and he got into the habit of looking lightly upon 
anything more trifling than a five-dollar bill. He’s changing 
his mind by great leaps. I’m prepared to spend the night in 
the coal cellar if you’ll just fix him up—not too comfortably. 
It’ll be a great lesson for him. There he is now. Just coming 
in. Fuzzy coat and hat and English stick. Hist! As they 
say on the stage.” 

The boy crossed the crowded lobby. There was a little 
worried, annoyed frown between his eyes. He laid a protecting 
hand on his mother’s arm. Emma McChesney was conscious 
of a little thrill of pride as she realized that he did not have 
to look up to meet her gaze. 

“ Look here, Mother, they tell me there’s some sort of a 
convention here, and the town’s packed. That’s what all those 


120 


AMERICANS ALL 


banners and things were for. I hope they’ve got something 
decent for us here. I came up with a man who said he didn’t 
think there was a hole left to sleep in.” 

“ You don’t say! ” exclaimed Emma McChesney, and turned 
to the clerk. “ This is my son, Jock McChesney—Mr. Sims. 
Is this true? ” 

“ Glad to know you, sir,” said Mr. Sims. “ Why, yes, I’m 
afraid we are pretty well filled up, but seeing it’s you maybe 
we can do something for you.” 

He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a penholder, and eying 
the pair before him with a maddening blankness of gaze. 
Finally: 

“ I’ll do my best, but you can’t expect much. I guess I 
can squeeze another cot into eight-seven for the young man. 
There’s—let’s see now—who’s in eighty-seven? Well, there’s 
two Bisons in the double bed, and one in the single, and Fat 
Ed Meyers in the cot and-” 

Emma McChesney stiffened into acute attention. 
“ Meyers? ” she interrupted. “ Do you mean Ed Meyers of 
the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company? ” 

“That’s so. You two are in the same line, aren’t you? 
He’s a great little piano player, Ed is. Ever hear him 
play? ” 

“ When did he get in? ” 

“ Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland 
'division. He’s in at supper.” 

“ Oh,” said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed 
relief. 

But relief had no place in the voice, or on the countenance of 
Jock McChesney. He bristled with belligerence. “ This cattle- 
car style of sleeping don’t make a hit. I haven’t had a decent 
night’s rest for three nights. I never could sleep on a sleeper. 
Can’t you fix us up better than that? ” 

“ Best I can do.” 

“ But where’s mother going? I see you advertise ‘ three 



HIS MOTHER’S SON 


12 I 


large and commodious steam-heated sample rooms in connec¬ 
tion.’ I suppose mother’s due to sleep on one of the tables 
there.” 

“ Jock,” Emma McChesney reproved him, “ Mr. Sims is 
doing us a great favor. There isn’t another hotel in town 
that would-” 

“ You’re right, there isn’t,” agreed Mr. Sims. “ I guess 
the young man is new to this traveling game. As I said, I’d 
like to accommodate you, but— Let’s see now. Tell you 
what I’ll do. If I can get the housekeeper to go over and sleep 
in the maids’ quarters just for to-night, you can use her room. 
There you are! Of course, it’s over the kitchen, and there 
may be some little noise early in the morning-” 

Emma McChesney raised a protesting hand. “ Don’t men¬ 
tion it. Just lead me thither. I’m so tired I could sleep in an 
excursion special that was switching at Pittsburgh. Jock, me 
child, we’re in luck. That’s twice in the same place. The first 
time was when we were inspired to eat our supper on the 
diner instead of waiting until we reached here to take the left¬ 
overs from the Bisons’ grazing. I hope that housekeeper hasn’t 
a picture of her departed husband dangling life-size on the 
wall at the foot of the bed. But they always have. Good¬ 
night, son. Don’t let the Bisons bite you. I’ll be up at 
seven.” 

But it was just 6.30 a.m. when Emma McChesney turned 
the little bend in the stairway that led to the office. The 
scrub-woman was still in possession. The cigar-counter girl 
had not yet made her appearance. There was about the 
place a general air of the night before. All but the 
night clerk. He was as spruce and trim, and alert and 
smooth-shaven as only a night clerk can be after a night’s 
vigil. 

“ ’Morning! ” Emma McChesney called to him. She wore 
blue serge, and a smart fall hat. The late autumn morning 
was not crisper and sunnier than she. 




122 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney,” returned Mr. Sims, 
sonorously. “ Have a good nights sleep? I hope the kitchen 
noises didn’t wake you.” 

Emma McChesney paused with her hand on the door. 
“ Kitchen? Oh, no. I could sleep through a vaudeville china- 
juggling act. But—what an extraordinarily unpleasant-looking 
man that housekeeper’s husband must have been.” 

That November morning boasted all those qualities which 
November-morning writers are so prone to bestow upon the 
month. But the words wine, and sparkle, and sting, and 
glow, and snap do not seem to cover it. Emma McChesney 
stood on the bottom step, looking up and down Main Street 
and breathing in great draughts of that unadjectivable air. 
Her complexion stood the test of the merciless, astringent 
morning and came up triumphantly and healthily firm and 
pink and smooth. The town was still asleep. She started to 
walk briskly down the bare and ugly Main Street of the little 
town. In her big, generous heart, and her keen, alert mind, 
there were many sensations and myriad thoughts, but varied 
and diverse as they were they all led back to the boy up there 
in the stuffy, over-crowded hotel room—the boy who was 
learning his lesson. 

Half an hour later she reentered the hotel, her cheeks glow¬ 
ing. Jock was not yet down. So she ordered and ate her wise 
and cautious breakfast of fruit and cereal and toast and coffee, 
skimming over her morning paper as she ate. At 7:30 she 
was back in the lobby, newspaper in hand. The Bisons were 
already astir. She seated herself in a deep chair in a quiet 
corner, her eyes glancing up over the top of her paper toward 
the stairway. At eight o’clock Jock McChesney came down. 

There was nothing of jauntiness about him. His eyelids 
were red. His face had the doughy look of one whose sleep 
has been brief and feverish. As he came toward his mother you 
noticed a stain on his coat, and a sunburst of wrinkles across 
one leg of his modish brown trousers. 


HIS MOTHER’S SON 


123 

“Good-morning, son!” said Emma McChesney. “Was 
it as bad as that? ” 

Jock McChesney’s long fingers curled into a fist. 

“ Say,” he began, his tone venomous, “ do you know what 
those—those—those-” 

“ Say it! ” commanded Emma McChesney. “ I’m only your 
mother. If you keep that in your system your breakfast will 
curdle in your stomach.” 

Jock McChesney said it. I know no phrase better fitted to 
describe his tone than that old favorite of the erotic novelists. 
It was vibrant with passion. It breathed bitterness. It siz¬ 
zled with savagery. It—Oh, alliteration is useless. 

“ Well,” said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, “ go on.” 

“Well! ” gulped Jock McChesney, and glared; “ those two 
double-bedded, bloomin’, blasted Bisons came in at twelve, 
and the single one about fifteen minutes later. They didn’t 
surprise me. There was a herd of about ninety-three of ’em 
in the hall, all saying good-night to each other, and planning 
where they’d meet in the morning, and the time, and place 
and probable weather conditions. For that matter, there 
were droves of ’em pounding up and down the halls all night. 
I never saw such restless cattle. If you’ll tell me what makes 
more noise in the middle of the night than the metal disk of 
a hotel key banging and clanging up against a door, I’d like 
to know what it is. My three Bisons were all dolled up with 
fool ribbons and badges and striped paper canes. When they 
switched on the light I gave a crack imitation of a tired work¬ 
ing man trying to get a little sleep. I breathed regularly 
and heavily, with an occasional moaning snore. But if those 
two hippopotamus Bisons had been alone on their native plains 
they couldn’t have cared less. They bellowed, and pawed the 
earth, and threw their shoes around, and yawned, and stretched 
and discussed their plans for the next day, and reviewed all 
their doings of that day. Then one of them said something 
about turning in, and I was so happy I forgot to snore. Just 



124 


AMERICANS ALL 


then another key clanged at the door, in walked a fat man in a 
brown suit and a brown derby, and stuff was off.” 

“ That,” said Emma McChesney, “ would be Ed Meyers, 
of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company.” 

“None other than our hero.” Jock’s tone had an added 
acidity. “ It took those four about two minutes to get ac¬ 
quainted. In three minutes they had told their real names, and 
it turned out that Meyers belonged to an organization that 
was a second cousin of the Bisons. In five minutes they had 
got together a deck and a pile of chips and were shirt-sleeving it 
around a game of pinochle. I would doze off to the slap of 
cards, and the click of chips, and wake up when the bell-boy 
came in with another round, which he did every six minutes. 
When I got up this morning I found that Fat Ed Meyers had 
been sitting on the chair over which I trustingly had draped my 
trousers. This sunburst of wrinkles is where he mostly sat. 
This spot on my coat is where a Bison drank his beer.” 

Emma McChesney folded her paper and rose, smiling. “ It 
Is sort of trying, I suppose, if you’re not used to it.” 

“ Used to it! ” shouted the outraged Jock. “ Used to it! 
Do you mean to tell me there’s nothing unusual about-” 

“ Not a thing. Oh, of course you don’t strike a bunch of 
Bisons every day. But it happens a good many times. The 
"World is full of Ancient Orders and they’re everlastingly get¬ 
ting together and drawing up resolutions and electing officers. 
Don’t you think you’d better go in to breakfast before the 
Bisons begin to forage? I’ve had mine.” 

The gloom which had overspread Jock McChesney’s face 
lifted a little. The hungry boy in him was uppermost. “ That’s 
so. I’m going to have some wheat cakes, and steak, and eggs, 
and coffee, and fruit, and toast, and rolls.” 

“ Why slight the fish? ” inquired his mother. Then, as he 
turned toward the dining-room, “ I’ve two letters to get out. 
Then I’m going down the street to see a customer. I’ll be 
up at the Sulzberg-Stein department store at nine sharp. 



HIS MOTHER’S SON 


125 

There’s no use trying to see old Sulzberg before ten, but I’ll be 
there, anyway, and so will Ed Meyers, or I’m no skirt sales¬ 
man. I want you to meet me there. It will do you good to 
watch how the overripe orders just drop, ker-plunk, into my 
lap.” 

Maybe you know Sulzberg & Stein’s big store? No? That’s 
because you’ve always lived in the city. Old Sulzberg sends 
his buyers to the New York market twice a year, and they need 
two floor managers on the main floor now. The money those 
people spend for red and green decorations at Christmas time, 
apple-blossoms and pink crepe paper shades in the spring, must 
be something awful. Young Stein goes to Chicago to have 
his clothes made, and old Sulzberg likes to keep the traveling 
men waiting in the little ante-room outside his private office. 

Jock McChesney finished his huge breakfast, strolled over 
to Sulzberg & Stein’s, and inquired his way to the office only to 
find that his mother was not yet there. There were three men 
in the little waiting-room. One of them was Fat Ed Meyers. 
His huge bulk overflowed the spindle-legged chair on which he 
sat. His brown derby was in his hands. His eyes were on the 
closed door at the other side of the room. So were the eyes 
of the other two travelers. Jock took a vacant seat next to 
Fat Ed Meyers so that he might, in his mind’s eye, pick out a 
particularly choice spot upon which his hard young fist might 
land—if only he had the chance. Breaking up a man’s sleep 
like that, the great big overgrown mutt! 

“ What’s your line? ” said Ed Meyers, suddenly turning 
toward Jock. 

Prompted by some imp—“ Skirts,” answered Jock. “ Ladies’ 
petticoats.” ( a As if men ever wore ’em! ” he giggled in¬ 
wardly.) 

Ed Meyers shifted around in his chair so that he might 
better stare at this new foe in the field. His little red mouth 
was open ludicrously. 

“ Who’re you out for? ” he demanded next. 


126 


AMERICANS ALL 


There was a look of Emma McChesney on Jock’s face. 
“ Why—er—the Union Underskirt and Hosiery Company of 
Chicago. New concern.” 

“ Must be,” ruminated Ed Meyers. “ I never heard of ’em, 
and I know ’em all. You’re starting in young, ain’t you, kid! 
Well, it’ll never hurt you. You’ll learn something new every 
day. Now me, I-” 

In breezed Emma McChesney. Her quick glance rested 
immediately upon Meyers and the boy. And in that moment 
some instinct prompted Jock McChesney to shake his head, 
ever so slightly, and assume a blankness of expression. And 
Emma McChesney, with that shrewdness which had made her 
one of the best salesmen on the road, saw, and miraculously 
understood. 

“ How do, Mrs. McChesney,” grinned Fat Ed Meyers. “ You 
see I beat you to it.” 

“ So I see,” smiled Emma, cheerfully. “ I was delayed. Just 
sold a nice little bill to Watkins down the street.” She seated 
herself across the way, and kept her eyes on that closed door. 

“ Say, kid,” Meyers began, in the husky whisper of the fat 
man, “ I’m going to put you wise to something, seeing you’re 
new to this game. See that lady over there? ” He nodded 
discreetly in Emma McChesney’s direction. 

“ Pretty, isn’t she? ” said Jock, appreciatively. 

“ Know who she is? ” 

“ Well—I—she does look familiar, but-” 

“ Oh, come now, quit your bluffing. If you’d ever met that 
dame you’d remember it. Her name’s McChesney—Emma 
McChesney, and she sells T. A. Buck’s Featherloom Petti¬ 
coats. I’ll give her her dues; she’s the best little salesman on 
the road. I’ll bet that girl could sell a ruffled, accordion-plaited 
underskirt to a fat woman who was trying to reduce. She’s 
got the darndest way with her. And at that she’s straight, 
too.” 

If Ed Meyers had not been gazing so intently into his hat, 




HIS MOTHER’S SON 


127 

trying at the same time to look cherubically benign he might 
have seen a quick and painful scarlet sweep the face of the 
boy, coupled with a certain tense look of the muscles around 
the jaw. 

“ Well, now, look here,” he went on, still in a whisper. 
“ We’re both skirt men, you and me. Everything’s fair in this 
game. Maybe you don’t know it, but when there’s a bunch of 
the boys waiting around to see the head of the store like this, 
and there happens to be a lady traveler in the crowd, why, 
it’s considered kind of a professional courtesy to let the lady 
have the first look-in. See? It ain’t so often that three people 
in the same line get together like this. She knows it, and she’s 
sitting on the edge of her chair, waiting to bolt when that door 
opens, even if she does act like she was hanging on the words 
of that lady clerk there. The minute it does open a crack she’ll 
jump up and give me a fleeting, grateful smile, and sail in and 
cop a fat order away from the old man and his skirt buyer. 
I’m wise. Say, he may be an oyster, but he knows a pretty 
woman when he sees one. By the time she’s through with him 
he’ll have enough petticoats on hand to last him from now until 
Turkey goes suffrage. Get me? ” 

“ I get you,” answered Jock. 

“I say, this is business, and good manners be hanged. When 
a woman breaks into a man’s game like this, let her take 
her chances like a man. Ain’t that straight? ” 

11 You’ve said something,” agreed Jock. 

“ Now, look here, kid. When that door opens I get up. 
See? And shoot straight for the old man’s office. See? Like 
a duck. See? Say, I may be fat, kid, but I’m what they call 
light on my feet, and when I see an order getting away from me 
I can be so fleet that I have Diana looking like old Weston do¬ 
ing a stretch of muddy country road in a coast-to-coast hike. 
See? Now you help me out on this and I’ll see that you don’t 
suffer for it. I’ll stick in a good word for you, believe me. You 
take the word of an old stager like me and you won’t go far—” 


128 


AMERICANS ALL 


The door opened. Simultaneously three figures sprang into 
action. Jock had the seat nearest the door. With marvelous 
clumsiness he managed to place himself in Ed Meyers 7 path, 
then reddened, began an apology, stepped on both of Ed’s feet, 
jabbed his elbow into his stomach, and dropped his hat. 
A second later the door of old Sulzberg’s private office 
closed upon Emma McChesney’s smart, erect, confident 
figure. 

Now, Ed Meyers’ hands were peculiar hands for a fat man. 
They were tapering, slender, delicate, blue-veined, temperamen¬ 
tal hands. At this moment, despite his purpling face, and his 
staring eyes, they were the most noticeable thing about him. 
His fingers clawed the empty air, quivering, vibrant, as though 
poised to clutch at Jock’s throat. 

Then words came. They spluttered from his lips. They 
popped like corn kernels in the heat of his wrath; they tripped 
over each other; they exploded. 

“ You darned kid, you! ” he began, with fascinating fluency. 
“ You thousand-legged, double-jointed, ox-footed truck horse! 
Come on out of here and I’ll lick the shine off your shoes, 
you blue-eyed babe, you! What did you get up for, huh? 
What did you think this was going to be—a flag drill? ” 

With a whoop of pure joy Jock McChesney turned and fled. 

They dined together at one o’clock, Emma McChesney and 
her son Jock. Suddenly Jock stopped eating. His eyes were 
on the door. “ There’s that fathead now,” he said, excitedly. 
“ The nerve of him! He’s coming over here.” 

Ed Meyers was waddling toward them with the quick 
light step of the fat man. His pink, full-jowled face was glow¬ 
ing. His eyes were bright as a boy’s. He stopped at their 
table and paused for one dramatic moment. 

“ So, me beauty, you two were in cahoots, huh? That’s the 
second low-down deal you’ve handed me. I haven’t forgotten 
that trick you turned with Nussbaum at DeKalb. Never 
mind, little girl. I’ll get back at you yet.” 


HIS MOTHER’S SON 


129 

He nodded a contemptous head in Jock’s direction. “ Carry¬ 
ing a packer? ” 

Emma McChesney wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin, 
crushed it on the table, and leaned back in her chair. “ Men,” 
she observed, wonderingly, “ are the cussedest creatures. This 
chap occupied the same room with you last night and you 
don’t even know his name. Funny! If two strange women 
had found themselves occupying the same room for a night they 
wouldn’t have got to the kimono and back hair stage before 
they would not only have known each other’s names, but they’d 
have tried on each other’s hats, swapped corset cover patterns, 
found mutual friends living in Dayton, Ohio, taught each 
other a new Irish crochet stitch, showed their family photo¬ 
graphs, told how their married sister’s little girl nearly died 
with swollen glands, and divided off the mirror into two sections 
to paste their newly-washed handkerchiefs on. Don’t tell 
me men have a genius for friendship.” 

“ Well, who is he? ” insisted Ed Meyers. “ He told me 
everything but his name this morning. I wish I had throttled 
him with a bunch of Bisons’ badges last night.” 

“ His name,” smiled Emma McChesney, “ is Jock McChes¬ 
ney. He’s my one and only son, and he’s put through his 
first little business deal this morning just to show his mother 
that he can be a help to his folks if he wants to. Now, Ed 
Meyers, if you’re going to have apoplexy, don’t you go and 
have it around this table. My boy is only on his second piece 
of pie, and I won’t have his appetite spoiled.” 


EDNA FERBER 


A professor of literature once began a lecture on Lowell by 
saying: “ It makes a great deal of difference to an author 
whether he is born in Cambridge or Kalamazoo.” Miss 
Ferber was born in Kalamazoo, but it hasn’t made much differ¬ 
ence to her. The date was August 15, 1887. She attended 
high school at Appleton, Wisconsin, and at seventeen secured 
a position as reporter on the Appleton Daily Crescent. That 
she was successful in newspaper work is shown by the fact that 
she soon had a similar position on the Milwaukee Journal , 
and went from there to the staff of the Chicago Tribune, one 
of the leading newspapers in the United States. 

But journalism, engrossing as it is, did not take all of her 
time. She began a novel, working on it in spare moments, but 
when it was finished she was so dissatisfied with it that she 
threw the manuscript into the waste basket. Here her mother 
found it, and sent it to a publisher, who accepted it at once. 
The book was Dawn O’ Hara. It was dedicated “ To my dear 
mother who frequently interrupts, and to my sister Fannie who 
says Sh-sh-sh outside my door.” With this book Miss Ferber, 
at twenty-four, found herself the author of one of the suc¬ 
cessful novels of the year. 

Her next work was in the field of the short story, and here too 
she quickly gained recognition. The field that she has made 
particularly her own is the delineation of the American busi¬ 
ness woman, a type familiar in our daily life, but never ade¬ 
quately presented in fiction until Emma McChesney appeared. 
The fidelity with which these stories describe the life of a travel¬ 
ing salesman show that Miss Ferber knew her subject through 
and through before she began to write. Her knowledge of 


130 


EDNA FERBER 


131 

other things is shown in an amusing letter which she wrote to 
the editor of the Bookman in 1912. He had criticized her for 
writing a story about baseball, saying that no woman really 
knew baseball. This was her reply, in part: 

You, buried up there in your office, or your apartment, with 
your books, books, books, and your pipe, and your everlasting manu¬ 
scripts, and makers of manuscripts, don’t you know that your woman 
secretary knows more about baseball than you do ? Don’t you know 
that every American girl knows baseball, and that most of us read 
the sporting page, not as a pose, but because we’re interested in 
things that happen on the field, and track, and links, and gridiron? 
Bless your heart, that baseball story was the worst story in the 
book, but it was written after a solid summer of watching our bush 
league team play ball in the little Wisconsin town that I used to 
call home. 

Humanity? Which of us really knows it? But take a fairly 
intelligent girl of seventeen, put her on a country daily newspaper, 
and then keep her on one paper or another, country and city, for 
six years, and—well, she just naturally can’t help learning some 
things about some folks, now can she? . . . 

You say that two or three more such books may entitle me to 
serious consideration. If I can get the editors to take more stories, 
why I suppose there’ll be more books. But please don’t perform 
any more serious consideration stuff over ’em. Because me’n 
Georgie Cohan, we jest aims to amuse. 

Her first book of short stories was called Buttered Side 
Down (her titles are always unusual). This was followed by 
Roast Beef, Medium, in which Mrs. McChesney appears as the 
successful distributor of Featherloom skirts. Personality Plus 
tells of the adventures of her son Jock as an advertising man. 
Cheerful—by Request introduces Mrs. McChesney and some 
other people. By this time her favorite character had become 
so well known that the stage called for her, so Miss Ferber 
collaborated with George V. Hobart in a play called Our Mrs. 
McChesney, which was produced with Ethel Barrymore in the 
title role. Her latest book, Fanny Herself, is a novel, and in 
its pages Mrs. McChesney appears again. 


132 


AMERICANS ALL 


Her stories show the effect of her newspaper training. The 
style is crisp; the descriptions show close observation. Humor 
lights up every page, and underlying all her stories is a belief 
in people, a faith that life is worth while, a courage in the face 
of obstacles, that we like to think is characteristically Am¬ 
erican. In the structure and the style of her stories, Miss 
Ferber shows the influence of O. Henry, or as a newspaper wit 
put it, 

O. Henry’s fame, unless mistaken I’m 
Goes ednaferberating down through time. 


AFTER THE BIG STORE CLOSES 


We all go to the Big Store to buy its bargains, and some¬ 
times we wonder idly what the clerks are like when they are not 
behind the counter. This story deals with the lives of two 
people who punched the time-clock. When the store closes, 
it is like the striking of the clock in the fairy tales: the clerks 
are transformed into human beings, and become so much like 
ourselves that it is hard to tell the difference. 


BITTER-SWEET 


BY 

Fannie Hurst 

Much of the tragical lore of the infant mortality, the mal¬ 
nutrition, and the five-in-a-room morality of the city’s poor 
is written in statistics, and the statistical path to the heart 
is more figurative than literal. 

It is difficult to write stylistically a per-annum report of 
1,327 curvatures of the spine, whereas the poor specific little 
vertebra of Mamie O’Grady, daughter to Lou, your laundress, 
whose alcoholic husband once invaded your very own basement 
and attempted to strangle her in the coal-bin, can instantly 
create an apron bazaar in the church vestry-rooms. 

That is why it is possible to drink your morning coffee with¬ 
out nausea for it, over the head-lines of forty thousand casual¬ 
ties at Ypres, but to push back abruptly at a three-line notice 
of little Tony’s, your corner bootblack’s, fatal dive before a 
street-car. 

Gertie Slayback was statistically down as a woman wage- 
earner ; a typhoid case among the thousands of the Borough of 
Manhattan for 1901; and her twice-a-day share in the Sub¬ 
way fares collected in the present year of our Lord. 

She was a very atomic one of the city’s four millions. But 
after all, what are the kings and peasants, poets and dray¬ 
men, but great, greater, or greatest, less, lesser, or least atoms 
of us? If not of the least, Gertie Slayback was of the very 
lesser. When she unlocked the front door to her rooming- 
house of evenings, there was no one to expect her, except on 
Tuesdays, which evening it so happened her week was up. And 

135 


AMERICANS ALL 


136 

when she left of mornings with her breakfast crumblessly 
cleared up and the box of biscuit and condensed-milk can 
tucked unsuspectedly behind her camisole in the top drawer 
there was no one to regret her. 

There are some of us who call this freedom. Again there are 
those for whom one spark of home fire burning would light 
the world. 

Gertie Slayback was one of these. Half a life-time of open¬ 
ing her door upon this or that desert-aisle of hall bedroom 
had not taught her heart how not to sink or the feel of daily 
rising in one such room to seem less like a damp bathing-suit, 
donned at dawn. 

The only picture—or call it atavism if you will—which 
adorned Miss Slayback’s dun-colored walls was a passe-partout 
snowscape, night closing in, and pink cottage windows peering 
out from under eaves. She could visualize that interior as if 
she had only to turn the frame for the smell of wood fire and 
the snap of pine logs and for the scene of two high-back chairs 
and the wooden crib between. 

What a fragile, gracile thing is the mind that can leap thus 
from nine bargain basement hours of hairpins and darning- 
balls to the downy business of lining a crib in Never-Never 
Land and warming No Man’s slippers before the fire of imag¬ 
ination. 

There was that picture so acidly etched into Miss Slayback’s 
brain that she had only to close her eyes in the slit-like sanc¬ 
tity of her room and in the brief moment of courting sleep feel 
the pink penumbra of her vision begin to glow. 

Of late years, or, more specifically, for two years and eight 
months, another picture had invaded, even superseded the old. 
A stamp-photograph likeness of Mr. James P. Batch in the 
corner of Miss Slayback’s mirror, and thereafter No Man’s 
slippers became number eight-and-a-half C, and the hearth a 
gilded radiator in a dining-living-room somewhere between the 
Fourteenth Street Subway and the land of the Bronx. 


BITTER-SWEET 


137 

How Miss Slayback, by habit not gregarious, met Mr. 
Batch is of no consequence, except to those snug ones of us 
to whom an introduction is the only means to such an end. 

At a six o’clock that invaded even Union Square with helio¬ 
trope dusk, Mr. James Batch mistook, who shall say otherwise, 
Miss Gertie Slayback, as she stepped down into the wintry 
shade of a Subway kiosk, for Miss Whodoesitmatter. At seven 
o’clock, over a dish of lamb stew a la White Kitchen, he con¬ 
fessed, and if Miss Slayback affected too great surprise and too 
little indignation, try to conceive six nine-hour week-in-and 
week-out days of hairpins and darning-balls, and then, at a 
heliotrope dusk, James P. Batch, in invitational mood, stepping 
in between it and the papered walls of a dun-colored evening. 
To further enlist your tolerance, Gertie Slayback’s eyes were 
as blue as the noon of June, and James P. Batch, in a belted- 
in coat and five kid finger-points protruding ever so slightly 
and rightly from a breast pocket, was hewn and honed in the 
image of youth. His the smile of one for whom life’s cup 
holds a heady wine, a wrinkle or two at the eye only serving to 
enhance that smile; a one-inch feather stuck upright in his 
derby hatband. 

It was a forelock once stamped a Corsican with the look of 
emperor. It was this hat feather, a cock’s feather at that and 
worn without sense of humor, to which Miss Slayback was 
fond of attributing the consequences of that heliotrope dusk. 

“ It was the feather in your cap did it, Jimmie. I can see 
you yet, stepping up with that innocent grin of yours. You 
think I didn’t know you were flirting? Cousin from Long 
Island City! ‘ Say,’ I says to myself, I says, £ I look as much 

like his cousin from Long Island City, if he’s got one, as my 
cousin from Hoboken (and I haven’t got any) would look 
like my sister if I had one.’ It was that sassy little feather in 
your hat! ” 

They would laugh over this ever-green reminiscence on Sun¬ 
day park benches and at intermission at moving pictures when 


AMERICANS ALL 


138 

they remained through it to see the show twice. Be the land¬ 
lady’s front parlor ever so permanently rented out, the motion- 
picture theater has brought to thousands of young city starve¬ 
lings, if not the quietude of the home, then at least the warmth 
and a juxtaposition and a deep darkness that can lave the sub¬ 
basement throb of temples and is filled with music with a 
hum in it. 

For two years and eight months of Saturday nights, each 
one of them a semaphore dropping out across the gray road 
of the week, Gertie Slayback and Jimmie Batch dined for one 
hour and sixty cents at the White Kitchen. Then arm and 
arm up the million-candle-power flare of Broadway, content, 
these two who had never seen a lake reflect a moon, or a slim 
fir pointing to a star, that life could be so manifold. And 
always, too, on Saturday, the tenth from the last row of the 
De Luxe Cinematograph, Broadway’s Best, Orchestra Chairs, 
fifty cents; Last Ten Rows, thirty-five. The give of velvet- 
upholstered chairs, perfumed darkness, and any old love story 
moving across it to the ecstatic ache of Gertie Slayback’s high 
young heart. 

On a Saturday evening that was already pointed with stars 
at the six-o’clock closing of Hoffheimer’s Fourteenth Street 
Emporium, Miss Slayback, whose blondness under fatigue 
could become ashy, emerged from the Bargain Basement al¬ 
most the first of its frantic exodus, taking the place of her 
weekly appointment in the entrance of the Popular Drug Store 
adjoining, her gaze, something even frantic in it, sifting the 
passing crowd. 

At six o’clock Fourteenth Street pours up from its base¬ 
ments, down from its lofts, and out from its five-and-ten-cent 
stores, shows, and arcades, in a great homeward torrent—a 
sweeping torrent that flows full flush to the Subway, the Ele¬ 
vated, and the surface car, and then spreads thinly into the 
least pretentious of the city’s homes—the five flights up, the 
two rooms rear, and the third floor back. 


BITTER-SWEET 


i39 


Standing there, this eager tide of the Fourteenth Street Em¬ 
porium, thus released by the six-o’clock flood-gates, flowed past 
Miss Slayback. White-nosed, low-chested girls in short-vamp 
shoes and no-carat gold vanity-cases. Older men resigned 
that ambition could be flayed by a yard-stick; young men still 
impatient of their clerkship. 

It was into the trickle of these last that Miss Slayback 
bored her glance, the darting, eager glance of hot eyeballs and 
inner trembling. She was not so pathetically young as she 
was pathetically blond, a treacherous, ready-to-fade kind of 
blondness that one day, now that she had found that very morn¬ 
ing her first gray hair, would leave her ashy. 

Suddenly, with a small catch of breath that was audible in 
her throat, Miss Slayback stepped out of that doorway, squirm¬ 
ing her way across the tight congestion of the sidewalk to its 
curb, then in and out, brushing this elbow and that shoulder, 
worming her way in an absolutely supreme anxiety to keep in 
view a brown derby hat bobbing right briskly along with the 
crowd, a greenish-black bit of feather upright in its band. 

At Broadway, Fourteenth Street cuts quite a caper, deploy¬ 
ing out into Union Square, an island of park, beginning to be 
succulent at the first false feint of spring, rising as it were from 
a sea of asphalt. Across this park Miss Slayback worked her 
rather frenzied way, breaking into a run when the derby threat¬ 
ened to sink into the confusion of a hundred others, and finally 
learning to keep its course by the faint but distinguishing fact 
of a slight dent in the crown. At Broadway, some blocks before 
that highway bursts into its famous flare, Mr. Batch, than whom 
it was no other, turned off suddenly at right angles down into a 
dim pocket of side-street and into the illuminated entrance of 
Ceiner’s Cafe Hungarian. Meals at all hours. Lunch, thirty 
cents. Dinner, fifty cents. Our Goulash is Famous. 

New York, which expresses itself in more languages to the 
square block than any other area in the world, Babylon in¬ 
cluded, loves thus to dine linguistically, so to speak. To the 


AMERICANS ALL 


140 

Crescent Turkish Restaurant for its Business Men’s Lunch 
comes Fourth Avenue, whose antique-shop patois reads across 
the page from right to left. Sight-seeing automobiles on mis¬ 
sion and commission bent allow Altoona, Iowa City, and 
Quincy, Illinois, fifteen minutes’ stop-in at Ching Ling-Foo’s 
Chinatown Delmonico’s. Spaghetti and red wine have set 
New York racing to reserve its table d’hotes. All except the 
Latin race. 

Jimmie Batch, who had first seen light, and that gaslight, 
in a block in lower Manhattan which has since been given over 
to a milk-station for a highly congested district, had the palate, 
if not the purse, of the cosmopolite. His digestive range in¬ 
cluded borsch and chow main; risotta and “ ham and.” 

To-night, as he turned into Cafe Hungarian, Miss Slayback 
slowed and drew back into the overshadowing protection of 
an adjoining office-building. She was breathing hard, and 
her little face, somehow smaller from chill, was nevertheless 
a high pink at the cheek-bones. 

The wind swept around the corner, jerking her hat, and 
her hand flew up to it. There was a fair stream of passers-by 
even here, and occasionally one turned for a backward glance 
at her standing there so frankly indeterminate. 

Suddenly Miss Slayback adjusted her tam-o’-shanter to its 
flop over her right ear, and, drawing off a pair of dark-blue 
silk gloves from over immaculately new white ones, entered 
Ceiner’s Cafe Hungarian. In its light she was not so obviously 
blonder than young, the pink spots in her cheeks had a deepen¬ 
ing value to the blue of her eyes, and a black velvet tam-o’- 
shanter revealing just the right fringe of yellow curls is no 
mean aid. 

First of all, Ceiner’s is an eating-place. There is no music 
except at five cents in the slot, and its tables for four are per¬ 
petually set each with a dish of sliced radishes, a bouquet of 
celery, and a mound of bread, half the stack rye. Its menus 
are well thumbed and badly mimeographed. Who enters 


BITTER-SWEET 


141 

Ceiner’s is prepared to dine from barley soup to apple strudel. 
At something after six begins the rising sound of cutlery, and 
already the new-comer fears to find no table. 

Off at the side, Mr. Jimmie Batch had already disposed 
of his hat and gray overcoat, and tilting the chair opposite him 
to indicate its reservation, shook open his evening paper, 
the waiter withholding the menu at this sign of rendezvous. 

Straight toward that table Miss Slayback worked quick, 
swift way, through this and that aisle, jerking back and seating 
herself on the chair opposite almost before Mr. Batch could 
raise his eyes from off the sporting page. 

There was an instant of silence between them—the kind 
of silence that can shape itself into a commentary upon the 
inefficacy of mere speech—a widening silence which, as they 
sat there facing, deepened until, when she finally spoke, it was 
as if her words were pebbles dropping down into a well. 

“ Don’t look so surprised, Jimmie,” she said, propping her 
face calmly, even boldly, into the white-kid palms. “ You 
might fall off the Christmas tree.” 

Above the snug, four-inch collar and bow tie Mr. Batch’s 
face was taking on a dull ox-blood tinge that spread back, 
even reddening his ears. Mr. Batch had the frontal bone of a 
clerk, the horn-rimmed glasses of the literarily astigmatic, and 
the sartorial perfection that only the rich can afford not to 
attain. 

He was staring now quite frankly, and his mouth had fallen 
open. “ Gert! ” he said. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Slayback, her insouciance gaining with 
his discomposure, her eyes widening and then a dolly kind of 
glassiness seeming to set in. “ You wasn’t expecting me, Jim¬ 
mie? ” 

He jerked up his hand, not meeting her glance. “ What’s 
the idea of the comedy? ” 

“ You don’t look glad to see me, Jimmie.” 

“ If you—think you’re funny.” 


142 


AMERICANS ALL 


She was working out of and then back into the freshly 
white gloves in a betraying kind of nervousness that belied 
the toss of her voice. “Well, of all things! Mad-cat! Mad, 
just because you didn’t seem to be expecting me.” 

“ I—There’s some things that are just the limit, that’s 
what they are. Some things that are just the limit, that no fel¬ 
low would stand from any girl, and this—this is one of 
them.” 

Her lips were trembling now. “ You—you bet your life 
there’s some things that are just the limit.” 

He slid out his watch, pushing back. “ Well, I guess this 
place is too small for a fellow and a girl that can follow him 
around the town like a—like-” 

She sat forward, grasping the table-sides, her chair tilting 
with her. “ Don’t you dare to get up and leave me sitting 
here! Jimmie Batch, don’t you dare! ” 

The waiter intervened, card extended. 

“ We—we’re waiting for another party,” said Miss Slayback, 
her hands still rigidly over the table-sides and her glance like a 
steady drill into Mr. Batch’s own. 

There was a second of this silence while the waiter withdrew, 
and then Mr. Batch whipped out his watch again, a gun-metal 
one with an open face. 

“ Now look here. I got a date here in ten minutes, and 
one or the other of us has got to clear. You—you’re one too 
many, if you got to know it.” 

“ Oh, I do know it, Jimmie! I been one too many for the 
last four Saturday nights. I been one too many ever since 
May Scully came into five hundred dollars’ inheritance and 
quit the Ladies’ Neckwear. I been one too many ever since 
May Scully became a lady.” 

“ If I was a girl and didn’t have more shame! ” 

“Shame! Now you’re shouting, Jimmie Batch. I haven’t 
got shame, and I don’t care who knows it. A girl don’t stop 
to have shame when she’s fighting for her rights.” 



BITTER-SWEET 


143 


He was leaning on his elbow, profile to her. “ That movie 
talk can't scare me. You can't tell me what to do and what 
not to do. I’ve given you a square deal all right. There’s 
not a word ever passed between us that ties me to your 
apron-strings. I don't say I’m not without my obligations to 
you, but that's not one of them. No, siree—no apron-strings.” 

“ I know it isn't, Jimmie. You’re the kind of a fellow 
wouldn’t even talk to himself for fear of committing himself.” 

“ I got a date here now any minute, Gert, and the sooner 
you-” 

“ You’re the guy who passed up the Sixty-first for the 
Safety First regiment.” 

“ I’ll show you my regiment some day.” 

“ I—I know you’re not tied to my apron-strings, Jimmie. 
I—I wouldn’t have you there for anything. Don’t you think 
I know you too well for that? That’s just it. Nobody on 
God’s earth knows you the way I do. I know you better than 
you know yourself.” 

“ You better beat it, Gertie. I tell you I’m getting sore.” 

Her face flashed from him to the door and back again, her 
anxiety almost edged with hysteria. “ Come on, Jimmie—out 
the side entrance before she gets here. May Scully ain’t the 
company for you. You think if she was, honey, I’d—I’d see 
myself come butting in between you this way, like—like a— 
common girl? She’s not the girl to keep you straight. Honest 
to God she’s not, honey.” 

“ My business is my business, let me tell you that.” 

“ She’s speedy, Jimmie. She was the speediest girl on the 
main floor, and now that she’s come into those five hundred, 
instead of planting it for a rainy day, she’s quit work and gone 
plumb crazy with it.” 

“ When I want advice about my friends I ask for it.” 

“ It’s not the good name that worries me, Jimmie, because 
she ain’t got any. It’s you. She’s got you crazy with that 
five hundred, too—that’s what’s got me scared.” 



144 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ Gee! you ought to let the Salvation Army tie a bonnet 
under your chin.” 

“ She’s always had her eyes on you, Jimmie. Ain’t you 
men got no sense for seein’ things? Since the day they moved 
the Gents’ Furnishings across from the Ladies’ Neckwear she’s 
had you spotted. Her goings-on used to leak down to the base¬ 
ment, alrighty. She’s not a good girl, May ain’t, Jimmie. She 
ain’t, and you know it. Is she? Is she? ” 

“ Aw! ” said Jimmie Batch. 

“You see! See! Ain’t got the nerve to answer, have 
you? ” 

“ Aw—maybe I know, too that she’s not the kind of a girl 
that would turn up where she’s not-” 

“ If you wasn’t a classy-looking kind of boy, Jimmie, that a 
fly girl like May likes to be seen out with, she couldn’t find 
you with magnifying glasses, not if you was born with the 
golden rule in your mouth and had swallowed it. She’s not 
the kind of girl, Jimmie, a fellow like you needs behind him. 
If—if you was ever to marry her and get your hands on them 
five hundred dollars-” 

“ It would be my business.” 

“ It’ll be your ruination. You’re not strong enough to 
stand up under nothing like that. With a few hundred unearned 
dollars in your pocket you—you’d go up in spontaneous com¬ 
bustion, you would.” 

“ It would be my own spontaneous combustion.” 

“ You got to be drove, Jimmie, like a kid. With them few 
dollars you wouldn’t start up a little cigar-store like you think 
you would. You and her would blow yourselves to the dogs 
in two months. Cigar-stores ain’t the place for you, Jimmie. 
You seen how only clerking in them was nearly your ruina¬ 
tion—the little gambling-room-in-the-back kind that you pick 
out. They ain’t cigar-stores; they’re only false faces for 
gambling.” 

“ You know it all, don’t you? ” 




BITTER-SWEET 


145 


“ Oh, I’m dealing it to you straight! There’s too many 
sporty crowds loafing around those joints for a fellow like you 
to stand up under. I found you in one, and as yellow-fingered 
and as loafing as they come, a new job a week, a-” 

“ Yeh, and there was some pep to variety, too.” 

“ Don’t throw over, Jimmie, what my getting you out of it 
to a decent job in a department store has begun to do for you. 
And you’re making good, too. Higgins teld me to-day, if you 
don’t let your head swell, there won’t be a fellow in the depart¬ 
ment can stack up his sales-book any higher.” 

“Aw!” 

“ Don’t throw it all over, Jimmie—and me—for a crop of 
dyed red hair and a few dollars to ruin yourself with.” 

He shot her a look of constantly growing nervousness, his 
mouth pulled to an oblique, his glance constantly toward the 
door. 

“ Don’t keep no date with her to-night, Jimmie. You 
haven’t got the constitution to stand her pace. It’s telling on 
you. Look at those fingers yellowing again—looka ” 

“ They’re my fingers, ain’t they? ” 

“ You see, Jimmie, I—I’m the only person in the world that 
likes you just for what—you ain’t—and hasn’t got any pipe 
dreams about you. That’s what counts, Jimmie, the folks that 
like you in spite, and not because of.” 

“We will now sing psalm number two hundred and twenty- 
three.” 

“ I know there’s not a better fellow in the world if he’s 
kept nailed to the right job, and I know, too, there’s not an¬ 
other fellow can go to the dogs any easier.” 

“ To hear you talk, you’d think I was about six.” 

“ I’m the only girl that’ll ever be willing to make a whip out 
of herself that’ll keep you going and won’t sting, honey. I 
know you’re soft and lazy and selfish and-” 

“ Don’t forget any.” 

“ And I know you’re my good-looking good-for-nothing, and 





AMERICANS ALL 


146 

I know, too, that you—you don’t care as much—as much for 
me from head to toe as I do for your little finger. But I— 
like you just the same, Jimmie. That—that’s what I mean 
about having no shame. I—do like you so—so terribly, 
Jimmie.” 

“Aw now—Gert! ” 

“ I know it, Jimmie—that I ought to be ashamed. Don’t 
think I haven’t cried myself to sleep with it whole nights in 
succession.” 

“Aw now—Gert! ” 

“ Don’t think I don’t know it, that I’m laying myself before 
you pretty common. I know it’s common for a girl to—to come 
to a fellow like this, but—but I haven’t got any shame about 
it—I haven’t got anything, Jimmie, except fight for—for what’s 
eating me. And the way things are between us now is eating 
me.” 

“ I- Why, I got a mighty high regard for you, Gert.” 

“ There’s a time in a girl’s life, Jimmie, when she’s been 
starved like I have for something of her own all her days; 
there’s times, no matter how she’s held in, that all of a sud¬ 
den comes a minute when she busts out.” 

“ I understand, Gert, but-” 

“ For two years and eight months, Jimmie, life has got to be 
worth while living to me because I could see the day, even if 
we—you—never talked about it, when you would be made 
over from a flip kid to—to the kind of a fellow would want 
to settle down to making a little two-by-four home for us. 
A little two-by-four all our own, with you steady on the job 
and advanced maybe to forty or fifty a week and-” 

“ For God’s sake, Gertie, this ain’t the time or the place 
to-” 

“ Oh yes, it is! It’s got to be, because it’s the first time in 
four weeks that you didn’t see me coming first.” 

“ But not now, Gert. I-” 

“ I’m not ashamed to tell you, Jimmie Batch, that I’ve been 







BITTER-SWEET 


147 

the making of you since that night you threw the wink at me. 
And—and it hurts, this does. God! how it hurts! ” 

He was pleating the table-cloth, swallowing as if his throat 
had constricted, and still rearing his head this way and that 
in the tight collar. 

“ I—never claimed not to be a bad egg. This ain’t the 
time and the place for rehashing, that’s all. Sure you been a 
friend to me. I don’t say you haven’t. Only I can’t be bossed 
by a girl like you. I don’t say May Scully’s any better than 
she ought to be. Only that’s my business. You hear? my 
business. I got to have life and see a darn sight more future 
for myself than selling shirts in a Fourteenth Street depart¬ 
ment store.” 

“ May Scully can’t give it to you—her and her fast crowd.” 

“ Maybe she can and maybe she can’t.” 

“ Them few dollars won’t make you; they’ll break you.” 

“ That’s for her to decide, not you.” 

“ I’ll tell her myself. I’ll face her right here and-” 

“ Now, look here, if you think I’m going to be let in for a 
holy show between you two girls, you got another think com¬ 
ing. One of us has got to clear out of here, and quick, too. 
You been talking about the side door; there it is. In five 
minutes I got a date in this place that I thought I could keep 
like any law-abiding citizen. One of us has got to clear, 
and quick, too. Gad! you wimmin make me sick, the whole 
lot of you! ” 

“ If anything makes you sick, I know what it is. It’s 
dodging me to fly around all hours of the night with May 
Scully, the girl who put the tang in tango. It’s eating around in 
swell sixty-cent restaurants like this and-” 

“ Gad! your middle name ought to be Nagalene.” 

“ Aw, now, Jimmie, maybe it does sound like nagging, but it 
ain’t, honey. It—it’s only my—my fear that I’m losing 
you, and—and my hate for the every-day grind of things, 
and-” 





148 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ I can’t help that, can I? ” 

“ Why, there—there’s nothing on God’s earth I hate, Jim¬ 
mie, like I hate that Bargain-Basement. When I think it’s 
down there in that manhole I’ve spent the best years of my life, 
I—I wanna die. The day I get out of it, the day I don’t have 
to punch that old time-clock down there next to the Com¬ 
plaints and Adjustment Desk, I—I’ll never put my foot below 
sidewalk level again to the hour I die. Not even if it was to 
take a walk in my own gold-mine.” 

“ It ain’t exactly a garden of roses down there.” 

“ Why, I hate it so terrible, Jimmie, that sometimes I wake 
up nights gritting my teeth with the smell of steam-pipes and 
the tramp of feet on the glass sidewalk up over me. Oh, God! 
you dunno—you dunno! ” 

“ When it comes to that, the main floor ain’t exactly a 
maiden’s dream, or a fellow’s, for that matter.” 

“With a man it’s different. It’s his job in life, earning, 
and—and the woman making the two ends of it meet. That’s 
why, Jimmie, these last two years and eight months, if not for 
what I was hoping for us, why—why—I—why, on your twenty 
a week, Jimmie, there’s nobody could run a flat like I could. 
Why, the days wouldn’t be long enough to putter in. I— 
Don’t throw away what I been building up for us, Jimmie, 
step by step! Don’t, Jimmie! ’ 

“ Good Lord, girl! You deserve better’n me.” 

“ I know I got a big job, Jimmie, but I want to make a 
man out of you, temper, laziness, gambling, and all. You got 
it in you to be something more than a tango lizard or a cigar- 
store bum, honey. It’s only you ain’t got the stuff in you to 
stand up under a five-hundred-dollar windfall and—a—and a 
sporty girl. If—if two glasses of beer make you as silly as 
they do, Jimmie, why, five hundred dollars would land you 
under the table for life.” 

“Aw—there you go again! ” 

“ I can’t help it, Jimmie. It’s because I never knew a fel- 


BITTER-SWEET 


149 

low had what’s he’s cut out for written all over him so. 
You’re a born clerk, Jimmie.” 

“ Sure, I’m a slick clerk, but-” 

“ You’re born to be a clerk, a good clerk, even a two- 
hundred-a-month clerk, the way you can win the trade, but 
never your own boss. I know what I’m talking about. I know 
your measure better than any human on earth can ever know 
your measure. I know things about you that you don’t even 
know yourself.” 

“ I never set myself up to nobody for anything I wasn’t.” 

“ Maybe not, Jimmie, but I know about you and—and that 
Central Street gang that time, and-” 

“ You! ” 

“ Yes, honey, and there’s not another human living but me 
knows how little it was your fault. Just bad company, that 
was all. That’s how much I—I love you, Jimmie, enough to 
understand that. Why, if I thought May Scully and a set-up 
in business was the thing for you, Jimmie, I’d say to her, I’d 
say, if it was like taking my own heart out in my hand and 
squashing it, I’d say to her, I’d say, 4 Take him, May.’ That’s 
how I—I love you, Jimmie. Oh, ain’t it nothing, honey, a 
girl can come here and lay herself this low to you-” 

“ Well, haven’t I just said you—you deserve better.” 

“ I don’t want better, Jimmie. I want you. I want to 
take hold of your life and finish the job of making it the kind 
we can both be proud of. Us two, Jimmie, in—in our own 
decent two-by-four. Shopping on Saturday nights. Frying in 
our own frying-pan in our own kitchen. Listening to our own 
phonograph in our own parlor. Geraniums and—and kids— 
and—and things. Gas-logs. Stationary washtubs. Jimmie! 
Jimmie! ” 

Mr. James P. Batch reached up for his hat and overcoat, 
cramming the newspaper into a rear pocket. 

“ Come on,” he said, stalking toward the side door and not 
waiting to see her to her feet. 





AMERICANS ALL 


150 

Outside, a banner of stars was over the narrow street. For 
a chain of five blocks he walked, with a silence and speed that 
Miss Slayback could only match with a running quickstep. 
But she was not out of breath. Her head was up, and her 
hand'where it hooked into Mr. Batch’s elbow, was in a vise 
that tightened with each block. 

You who will mete out no other approval than that vouched 
for by the stamp of time and whose contempt for the con¬ 
temporary is from behind the easy refuge of the classics, suffer 
you the shuddering analogy that between Aspasia who inspired 
Pericles, Theodora who suggested the Justinian code, and 
Gertie Slayback who commandeered Jimmie Batch, is a sister- 
ship which rounds them, like a lasso thrown back into time, 
into one and the same petticoat dynasty behind the throne. 

True, Gertie Slayback’s mise en scene was a two-room 
kitchenette apartment situated in the Bronx at a surveyor’s 
farthest point between two Subway stations, and her present 
state one of frequent red-faced forays down into a packing- 
case. But there was that in her eyes which witchingly bespoke 
the conquered, but not the conqueror. Hers was actually the 
titillating wonder of a bird which, captured, closes its wings, that 
surrender can be so sweet. 

Once she sat on the edge of the packing-case, dallying with a 
hammer, then laid it aside suddenly, to cross the littered room 
and place the side of her head to the immaculate waistcoat of 
Mr. Jimmie Batch, red-faced, too, over wrenching up with 
hatchet-edge a barrel-top. 

“ Jimmie darling, I—I just never will get over your finding 
this place for us.” 

Mr. Batch wiped his forearm across his brow, his voice jerk¬ 
ing between the squeak of nails extracted from wood. 

“ It was you, honey. You give me the to-let ad. and I 
came to look, that’s all.” 

“ Just the samey, it was my boy found it. If you hadn’t 


BITTER-SWEET 151 

come to look we might have been forced into taking that old 
dark coop over on Simpson Street.” 

“ What’s all this junk in this barrel? ” 

“ Them’s kitchen utensils, honey.” 

“ Kitchen what? ” * 

“ Kitchen things that you don’t know nothing about except 
to eat good things out of.” 

“ What’s this? ” 

“ Don’t bend it! That’s a celery-brush. Ain’t it cute? ” 

“ A celery-brush! Why didn’t you get it a comb, too? ” 

“ Ah, now, honey-bee, don’t go trying to be funny and 
picking through these things you don’t know nothing about! 
They’re just cute things I’m going to cook something grand 
suppers in, for my something awful bad boy.” 

He leaned down to kiss her at that. “ Gee! ” 

She was standing, her shoulder to him and head thrown back 
against his chest. She looked up to stroke his cheek, her face 
foreshortened. 

“ I’m all black and blue pinching myself, Jimmie.” 

“ Me too.” 

“ Every night when I get home from working here in the flat 
I say to myself in the looking-glass, I say, 1 Gertie Slay- 
back, what if you’re only dreamin’ ? ” 

“ Me too.” 

“ I say to myself, * Are you sure that darling flat up there, 
with the new pink-and-white wall-paper and the furniture 
arriving every day, is going to be yours in a few days when 
you’re Mrs. Jimmie Batch? ’ ” 

“ Mrs. Jimmie Batch—say, that’s immense.” 

“ I keep saying it to myself every night, ‘ One day less.’ 
Last night it was two days. To-night it’ll be—one day, Jim¬ 
mie, till I’m—her.” 

She closed her eyes and let her hand linger up to his cheek, 
head still back against him, so that, inclining his head, he 
could rest his lips in the ash-blond fluff of her hair. 


152 


AMERICANS ALL 


“Talk about can’t wait! If to-morrow was any farther off 
they’d have to sweep out a padded cell for me.” 

She turned to rumple the smooth light thatch of his hair. 
“Bad boy! Can’t wait! And here we are getting married 
all of a sudden, just like that. Up to the time of this draft 
business, Jimmie Batch, ‘pretty soon ’ was the only date I 
could ever get out of you, and now here you are crying over 
one day’s wait. Bad honey boy! ” 

He reached back for the pink newspaper so habitually pro¬ 
truding from his hip-pocket. “ You ought to see the way 
they’re neck-breaking for the marriage-license bureaus since the 
draft. First thing we know the whole shebang of the boys will 
be claiming exemption of sole support of wife.” 

“ It’s a good thing we made up our minds quick, Jimmie. 
They’ll be getting wise. If too many get exemption from 
the army by marrying right away, it’ll be a give-away.” 

“ I’d like to know who can lay his hands on the exemption 
of a little wife to support.” 

“Oh, Jimmie, it—it sounds so funny. Being supported! 
Me that always did the supporting, not only to me, but to my 
mother and great-grandmother up to the day they died.” 

“ I’m the greatest little supporter you ever seen.” 

“ Me getting up mornings to stay at home in my own 
darling little flat, and no basement or time-clock. Nothing 
but a busy little hubby to eat him nice, smelly, bacon break¬ 
fast and grab him nice morning newspaper, kiss him wifie, and 
run downtown to support her. Jimmie, every morning for 

your breakfast I’m going to fry-” 

“ You bet your life he’s going to support her, and he’s going 
to pay back that forty dollars of his girl’s that went into his 
wedding duds, that hundred and ninety oi nis girl’s savings 

that went into furniture-” 

“ We got to meet our instalments every month first, Jimmie. 
That’s what we want—no debts and every little darling piece 
of furniture paid up.” 




BITTER-SWEET 


153 


“ We—Fm going to pay it, too.” 

“ And my Jimmie is going to work to get himself promoted 
and quit being a sorehead at his steady hours and all.” 

“ 1 know more about selling, honey, than the whole bunch of 
dubs in that store put together if they’d give me a chance to 
prove it.” 

She laid her palm to his lips. 

“ ’Shh-h-h! You don’t nothing of the kind. It’s not con¬ 
ceit, it’s work is going to get my boy his raise.” 

“ If they’d listen to me, that department would-” 

“ Sh-h-h! J. G. Hoffheimer don’t have to get pointers from 
Jimmie Batch how to run his department store.” 

“ There you go again. What’s J. G. Hoffheimer got that I 
ain’t? Luck and a few dollars in his pocket that, if I had in 
mine, would-” 

“ It was his own grit put those dollars there, Jimmie. Just 
put it out of your head that it’s luck makes a self-made man.” 

“ Self-made! You mean things just broke right for him. 
That’s two-thirds of this self-made business.” 

“ You mean he buckled right down to brass tacks, and 
that’s what my boy is going to do.” 

“ The trouble with this world is it takes money to make 
money. Get your first few dollars, I always say, no matter 
how, and then when you’re on your feet scratch your conscience 
if it itches. That’s why I said in the beginning, if we had took 
that hundred and ninety furniture money and staked it on-” 

“ Jimmie, please—please! You wouldn’t want to take a 
girl’s savings of years and years to gamble on a sporty cigar 
proposition with a card-room in the rear. You wouldn’t, Jim¬ 
mie. You ain’t that kind of fellow. Tell me you wouldn’t, 
Jimmie.” 

He turned away to dive into the barrel. “ Naw,” he said. 
“ I wouldn’t.” v 

The sun had receded, leaving a sudden sullen gray; the 
little square room, littered with an upheaval of excelsior, sheet- 




I 54 


AMERICANS ALL 


shrouded furniture, and the paper-hanger’s paraphernalia and 
inimitable smells, darkening and seeming to chill. 

“We got to quit now, Jimmie. It’s getting dark and the gas 
ain’t turned on in the meter yet.” 

He rose up out of the barrel, holding out at arm’s-length 
what might have been a tinsmith’s version of a porcupine. 

“ What in— What’s this thing that scratched me? ” 

She danced to take it. “ It’s a grater, a darling grater for 
horseradish and nutmeg and cocoanut. I’m going to fix you a 
cocoanut cake for our honeymoon supper to-morrow night, 
honey-bee. Essie Wohlgemuth over in the cake-demonstrating 
department is going to bring me the recipe. Cocoanut cake! 
And I’m going to fry us a little steak in this darling little skillet. 
Ain’t it the cutest! ” 

“ Cute she calls a tin skillet.” 

“ Look what’s pasted on it. ‘ Little Housewife’s Skillet. 
The Kitchen Fairy.’ That’s what I’m going to be, Jimmie, the 
kitchen fairy. Give me that. It’s a rolling-pin. All my life 
I’ve wanted a rolling-pin. Look honey, a little string to hang 
it up by. I’m going to hang everything up in rows. It’s going 
to look like Tiffany’s kitchen, all shiny. Give me, honey; 
that’s an egg-beater. Look at it whiz. And this—this is a 
pan for war bread. I’m going to make us war bread to help 
the soldiers.” 

“ You’re a little soldier yourself,” he said. 

“ That’s what I would be if I was a man, a soldier all in 
brass buttons.” 

“There’s a bunch of the fellows going,” said Mr. Batch, 
standing at the window, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying 
up and down on his heels and breaking into a low, contempla¬ 
tive whistle. 

She was at his shoulder, peering over it. “ You wouldn’t be 
afraid, would you, Jimmie? ” 

“ You bet your life I wouldn’t.” 

She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. “ Only 


BITTER-SWEET 


155 

my boy’s got a wife—a brand-new wifie to support, ain’t 
he? ” 

“ That’s what he has,” said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, 
but still gazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was 
seeing. 

“Jimmie! ” 

“ Huh? ” 

“ Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, 
just like we lived on Riverside Drive.” 

“ All the Hudson River I can see is fifteen smokestacks and 
somebody’s wash-line out.” 

“ It ain’t so. We got a grand view. Look! Stand on tip¬ 
toe, Jimmie, like me. There, between that water-tank on that 
black roof over there and them two chimneys. See? Watch 
my finger. A little stream of something over there that moves.” 

“No, I don’t see.” 

“Look, honey-bee, close! See that little streak? ” 

“ All right, then, if you see it I see it.” 

“ To think we got a river view from our flat! It’s like liv¬ 
ing in the country. I’ll peek out at it all day long. God! 
honey, I just never will be over the happiness of being done 
with basements.” 

“ It was swell of old Higgins to give us this half-Saturday. 
It shows where you stood with the management, Gert—this and 
a five-dollar gold piece. Lord knows they wouldn’t pony up 
that way if it was me getting married by myself.” 

“ It’s because my boy ain’t shown them down there yet the 
best that’s in him. You just watch his little safety-first wife 
see to it that from now on he keeps up her record of never in 
seven years pushing the time-clock even one minute late, 
and that he keeps his stock shelves O. K. and shows his depart¬ 
ment he’s a comer-on.” 

“ With that bunch of boobs a fellow’s got a swell chance to 
get anywheres.” 

“ It’s getting late, Jimmie. It don’t look nice for us to 


AMERICANS ALL 


156 

stay here so late alone, not till—to-morrow. Ruby and Essie 
and Charley are going to meet us in the minister’s back parlor 
at ten sharp in the morning. We can be back here by noon and 
get the place cleared up enough to give ’em a little lunch, just 
a fun lunch without fixings.” 

“ I hope the old guy don’t waste no time splicing us. It’s 
one of the things a fellow likes to have over with.” 

“ Jimmie! Why, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world, 
like a garden of lilies or—or something, a marriage ceremony 
is! You got the ring safe, honey-bee, and the license? ” 

“ Pinned in my pocket where you put ’em, Flirty Gertie.” 

“ Flirty Gertie! Now you’ll begin teasing me with that all 
our life—the way I didn’t slap your face that night when I 
should have. I just couldn’t have, honey. Goes to show we 
were just cut and dried for each other, don’t it? Me, a girl 
that never in her life let a fellow even bat his eyes at her 
without an introduction. But that night when you winked, 
honey—something inside of me just winked back.” 

“ My girl! ” 

“ You mean it, boy? You ain’t sorry about nothing, 
Jimmie? ” 

“ Sorry? Well, I guess not! ” 

“ You seen the way—she—May—you seen for yourself what 
she was, when we seen her walking, that next night after 
Ceiner’s, nearly staggering, up Sixth Avenue with Budge 
Evans.” 

“ I never took no stock in her, honey. I was just letting 
her like me.” 

She sat back on the box edge, regarding him, her face so 
soft and wont to smile that she could not keep its composure. 

“ Get me my hat and coat, honey. We’ll walk down. Got 
the key? ” 

They skirmished in the gloom, moving through slit-like aisles 
of furniture and packing-box. 

“ Ouch! ” 


BITTER-SWEET 


157 

“ Oh, the running water is hot, Jimmie, just like the ad. 
said! We got red-hot running water in our flat. Close the 
front windows, honey. We don’t want it to rain in on our 
new green sofa. Not till it’s paid for, anyways.” 

“ Hurry.” 

“ I’m ready.” 

They met at the door, kissing on the inside and the outside 
of it; at the head of the fourth and the third and the second 
balustrade down. 

“ We’ll always make ’em little love landings, Jimmie, so we 
can’t ever get tired climbing them.” 

“ Yep.” 

Outside there was still a pink glow in a clean sky. The 
first flush of spring in the air had died, leaving chill. They 
walked briskly, arm in arm, down the asphalt incline of side¬ 
walk leading from their apartment-house, a new street of 
canned homes built on a hillside—the sepulchral abode of the 
city’s trapped whose only escape is down the fire-escape, and 
then only when the alternative is death. At the base of the hill 
there flows, in constant hubbub, a great up-and-down artery of 
street, repeating itself, mile after mile, in terms of the butcher, 
the baker, and the every-other-corner drug-store of a million 
dollar corporation. Housewives with perambulators and oil¬ 
cloth shopping bags. Children on roller-skates. The din of 
small tradesmen and the humdrum of every city block where 
the homes remain unboarded all summer, and every wife is on 
haggling terms with the purveyor of her evening roundsteak 
and mess of rutabaga. 

Then there is the soap-box provender, too, sure of a crowd, 
offering creed, propaganda, patent medicine, and politics. It 
is the pulpit of the reformer and the housetop of the fanatic, 
this soap-box. From it the voice to the city is often a pious 
one, an impious one, and almost always a raucous one. Luther 
and Sophocles and even a Citizen of Nazareth made of the 
four winds of the street corner the walls of a temple of wis- 


AMERICANS ALL 


158 

dom. What more fitting acropolis for freedom of speech than 
the great out-of-doors! 

Turning from the incline of cross-street into this petty Bag¬ 
dad of the petty wise, the voice of the street corner lifted 
itself above the inarticulate din of the thoroughfare. A youth, 
thewed like an ox, surmounted on a stack of three self-provided 
canned-goods boxes, his in-at-the-waist silhouette thrown out 
against a sky that was almost ready to break out in stars; a 
crowd tightening about him. 

“ It’s a soldier-boy talkin’, Gert.” 

“ If it ain’t! ” They tiptoed at the fringe of the circle, heads 
back. 

“ Look, Gert, he’s a lieutenant; he’s got a shoulder-bar. And 
those four down there holding the flag are just privates. You 
can always tell a lieutenant by the bar.” 

“ Uh-huh.” 

“ Say, them boys do stack up some for Uncle Sam.” 

“ ’Shh-h-h, Jimmie! ” 

“ I’m here to tell you that them boys stack up some.” 

A banner stiffened out in the breeze, Mr. Batch reading: 
“ Enlist before you are drafted. Last chance to beat the draft. 
Prove your patriotism. Enlist now! Your country calls! ” 

“ Come on,” said Mr. Batch. 

“ Wait. I want to hear what he’s saying.” 

“. . . there’s not a man here before me can afford to shirk 
his duty to his country. The slacker can’t get along without 
his country, but his country can very easily get along without 
him.” 

Cheers. 

“ The poor exemption boobs are already running for doc¬ 
tors’ certificates and marriage licenses, but even if they get by 
with it—and it is ninety-nine to one they won’t—they can’t 
run away from their own degradation and shame.” 

“ Come on, Jimmie.” 

“ Wait.” 


BITTER-SWEET 


159 

“ Men of America, for every one of you who tries to dodge 
his duty to his country there is a yellow streak somewhere 
underneath the hide of you. Women of America, every one 
of you that helps to foster the spirit of cowardice in your par¬ 
ticular man or men is helping to make a coward. It's the 
cowards and the quitters and the slackers and dodgers that 
need this war more than the patriotic ones who are willing to 
buckle on and go! 

“ Don’t be a buttonhole patriot! A government that is good 
enough to live under is good enough to fight under! ” 

Cheers. 

“ If there is any reason on earth that has manifested itself 
for this devastating and terrible war it is that it has been a 
maker of men. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, I am back from four months in 
the trenches with the French army, and I’ve come home, now 
that my own country is at war, to give her every ounce of 
energy I’ve got to offer. As soon as a hole in my side is 
healed up I’m going back to those trenches, and I want to 
say to you that them four months of mine face to face with life 
and with death have done more for me than all my twenty-four 
civilian years put together.” 

Cheers. 

“ I’ll be a different man, if I live to come back home after 
this war and take up my work again as a draftsman. Why, 
I’ve seen weaklings and self-confessed failures and even nin¬ 
nies go into them trenches and come out—oh yes, plenty of 
them do come out—men. Men that have got close enough 
down to the facts of things to feel new realizations of what 
life means come over them. Men that have gotten back their 
pep, their ambitions, their unselfishness. That’s what war can 
do for your men, you women who are helping them to foster 
the spirit of holding back, of cheating their government. That’s 
what war can do for your men. Make of them the kind of 
men who some day can face their children without having 


i6o 


AMERICANS ALL 


to hang their heads. Men who can answer for their part in 
making the world a safe place for democracy.” 

An hour they stood there, the air quieting but chilling, and 
lavishly sown stars cropping out. Street lights had come out, 
too, throwing up in ever darker relief the figure above the 
heads of the crowd. His voice had coarsened and taken on a 
raw edge, but every gesture was flung from the socket, and 
from where they had forced themselves into the tight circle 
Gertie Slayback, her mouth fallen open and her head still back, 
could see the sinews of him ripple under khaki and the dia¬ 
phragm lift for voice. 

There was a shift of speakers then, this time a private, still 
too rangy, but his looseness of frame seeming already to con¬ 
form to the exigency of uniform. 

“ Come on, Jimmie. I—I’m cold.” 

They worked out into the freedom of the sidewalk, and for 
ten minutes, down blocks of petty shops already lighted, walked 
in a silence that grew apace. 

He was suddenly conscious that she was crying, quietly, her 
handkerchief wadded against her mouth. He strode on with a 
scowl and his head bent. 

“ Let’s sit down in this little park, Jimmie. I’m tired.” 

They rested on a bench on one of those small triangles of 
breathing-space which the city ekes out now and then; mill 
ends of land parcels. 

He took immediately to roving the toe of his shoe in and 
out among the gravel. She stole out her hand to his arm. 

“ Well, Jimmie? ” Her voice was in the gauze of a whisper 
that hardly left her throat. 

“ Well, what? ” he said, still toeing. 

“ There—there’s a lot of things we never thought about, 
Jimmie.” 

“ Aw! ” 

“ Eh, Jimmie? ” 

“ You mean you never thought about.” 


BITTER-SWEET 


161 


“ What do you mean? ” 

“1 know what I mean alrighty.” 

“ I—I was the one that suggested it, Jimmie, but—but you 
fell in. I—I just couldn’t bear to think of it, Jimmie—your 
going and all. I suggested it, but—you fell in.” 

“ Say, when a fellow’s shoved he falls. I never gave a 
thought to sneaking an exemption until it was put in my head. 
I’d smash the fellow in the face that calls me coward, I 
will.” 

“ You could have knocked me down with a feather, Jim¬ 
mie, looking at it his way, all of a sudden.” 

“ You couldn’t me. Don’t think I was ever strong for the 
whole business. I mean the exemption part. I wasn’t going 
to say nothing. What’s the use, seeing the way you had your 
heart set on—on things? But the whole business, if you want 
to know it, went against my grain. I’ll smash the fellow in 
the face that calls me a coward.” 

“ I know, Jimmie; you—you’re right. It was me suggested 
hurrying things like this. Sneakin’! Oh, God! ain’t I the 
messer-up! ” 

“ Lay easy, girl. I’m going to see it through. I guess 
there’s been fellows before me and will be after me who have 
done worse. I’m going to see it through. All I got to say is 
I’ll smash up the fellow calls me coward. Come on, forget it. 
Let’s go.” 

She was close to him, her cheek crinkled against his with 
the frank kind of social unconsciousness the park bench seems 
to engender. 

“ Come on, Gert. I got a hunger on.” 

“ ’Shh-h-h, Jimmie! Let me think. I’m thinking.” 

“ Too much thinking killed a cat. Come on.” 

“Jimmie! ” 

“ Huh? ” 

“ Jimmie—would you—had you ever thought about being a 
soldier? ” 


i 62 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ Sure. I came in an ace of going into the army that time 
after—after that little Central Street trouble of mine. I’ve 
got a book in my trunk this minute on military tactics. 
Wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see me land in the army some 
day.” 

“ It’s a fine thing, Jimmie, for a fellow—the army.” 

“ Yeh, good for what ails him.” 

She drew him back, pulling at his shoulder so that finally 
he faced her. “ Jimmie! ” 

“ Huh? ” 

“ I got an idea.” 

“ Shoot.” 

“ You remember once, honey-bee, how I put it to you that 
night at Ceiner’s how, if it was for your good, no sacrifice was 
too much to make.” 

“ Forget it.” 

“ You didn’t believe it.” 

“ Aw, say now, what’s the use digging up ancient his¬ 
tory? ” 

“ You’d be right, Jimmie, not to believe it. I haven’t lived 
up to what I said.” 

“ Oh Lord, honey! What’s eating you now? Come to the 
point.” 

She would not meet his eyes, turning her head from him 
to hide lips that would quiver. “ Honey, it—it ain’t coming 
off—that’s all. Not now—anyways.” 

“ What ain’t? ” 

“ Us.” 

“ Who? ” 

“ You know what I mean, Jimmie. It’s like everything the 
soldier boy on the corner just said. I—I saw you getting red 
clear behind your ears over it. I—I was, too, Jimmie. It’s 
like that soldier boy was put there on that corner just to 
show me, before it was too late, how wrong I been in every one 
of my ways. Us women who are helping to foster slackers. 


BITTER-SWEET 


163 

That’s what we’re making of them—slackers for life. And 
here I been thinking it was your good I had in mind, when all 
along it’s been mine. That’s what it’s been, mine! ” 

“ Aw, now, Gert-” 

“ You got to go, Jimmie. You got to go, because you want to 
go and—because I want you to go.” 

“ Where? ” 

“ To war.” 

He took hold of her two arms because they were trembling. 
“ Aw, now, Gert, I didn’t say anything complaining. I-” 

“ You did, Jimmie, you did, and—and I never was so glad 
over you that you did complain. I just never was so glad. I 
want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to go and get a man made 
out of you. They’ll make a better job out of you than ever 
I can. I want you to get the yellow streak washed out. I 
want you to get to be all the things he said you would. For 
every line he was talking up there, I could see my boy coming 
home to me some day better than anything I could make out 
of him, babying him the way I can’t help doing. I could see 
you, honey-bee, coming back to me with the kind of lift to 
your head a fellow has when he’s been fighting to make the 
world a safe place for dem—for whatever it was he said. I 
want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to beat the 
draft, too. Nothing on earth can make me not want you 
to go.” 

“ Why, Gert—you’re kiddin’! ” 

“ Honey, you want to go, don’t you? You want to square 
up those shoulders and put on khaki, don’t you? Tell me you 
want to go! ” 

“ Why—why, yes, Gert, if-” 

“ Oh, you’re going, Jimmie! You’re going! ” 

“Why, girl—you’re crazy! Our flat! Our furniture— 


“What’s a flat? What’s furniture? What’s anything? 
There’s not a firm in business wouldn’t take back a boy’s furni- 






AMERICANS ALL 


164 

ture—a boy’s everything—that’s going out to fight for—for 
dem-o-cracy! What’s a flat? What’s anything? ” 

He let drop his head to hide his eyes. 

Do you know it is said that on the Desert of Sahara, the 
slope of Sorrento, and the marble of Fifth Avenue the sun can 
shine whitest? There is an iridescence to its glittering on 
bleached sand, blue bay, and Carrara facade that is sheer light 
distilled to its utmost. 

On one such day when, standing on the high slope of Fifth 
Avenue where it rises toward the Park, and looking down on 
it, surging to and fro, it was as if, so manifest the brilliancy, 
every head wore a tin helmet, parrying sunlight at a thousand 
angles of refraction. 

Parade-day, all this glittering midstream is swept to the 
clean sheen of a strip of moire, this splendid desolation blocked 
on each side by crowds half the density of the sidewalk. 

On one of these sun-drenched Saturdays dedicated by a grow¬ 
ing tradition to this or that national expression, the Ninety- 
ninth Regiment, to a flare of music that made the heart leap 
out against its walls, turned into a scene thus swept clean for 
it, a wave of olive drab, impeccable row after impeccable row 
of scissors-like legs advancing. Recruits, raw if you will, but 
already caparisoned, sniffing and scenting, as it were, for the 
great primordial mire of war. 

There is no state of being so finely sensitized as national con¬ 
sciousness. A gauntlet down, and it surges up. One ripple of a 
flag defended can goose-flesh a nation. How bitter and how 
sweet it is to give a soldier! 

To the seething kinetic chemistry of such mingling emotions 
there were women who stood in the frontal crowds of the side¬ 
walks stifling hysteria, or ran after in terror at sight of one so 
personally hers, receding in that great impersonal wave of olive 
drab. 

And yet the air was martial with banner and with shout. 


BITTER-SWEET 


165 

And the ecstasy of such moments is like a dam against reality, 
pressing it back. It is in the pompless watches of the night or 
of too long days that such dams break, excoriating. 

For the thirty blocks of its course Gertie Slayback followed 
that wave of men, half run and half walk. Down from the 
curb, and at the beck and call of this or that policeman up 
again, only to find opportunity for still another dive out from 
the invisible roping off of the sidewalk crowds. 

From the middle of his line, she could see, sometimes, the 
tail of Jimmie Batch’s glance roving for her, but to all pur¬ 
ports his eye was solely for his own replica in front of him, 
and at such times, when he marched, his back had a little 
additional straightness that was almost swayback. 

Nor was Gertie Slayback crying. On the contrary, she was 
inclined to laughter. A little too inclined to a high and brittle 
sort of dissonance over which she seemed to have no control. 

“ ’By, Jimmie. So long! Jimmie! You-hoo! ” 

Tramp. Tramp. Tramp-tramp-tramp. 

“You-hoo! Jimmie! So long, Jimmie! ” 

At Fourteenth Street, and to the solemn stroke of one from 
a tower, she broke off suddenly without even a second look 
back, dodging under the very arms of the crowd as she ran out 
from it. 

She was one and three-quarter minutes late when she punched 
the time-clock beside the Complaints and Adjustment Desk in 
the Bargain-Basement. 


FANNIE HURST 


“ I find myself at twenty-nine exactly where at fourteen I 
had planned I would be.’ , So Miss Hurst, in a sketch written 
for the American Magazine (March, 1919), sums up the story 
of a remarkable literary career. 

Fannie Hurst was born in St. Louis, October 19, 1889. She 
attended the public schools, and began to write—with the 
firm intention of becoming an author—before she was out of 
grammar school. “ At fourteen,” she tells us in the article 
just referred to, “ the one pigeon-hole of my little girl’s desk 
was already stuffed with packets of rejected verse which had 
been furtively written, furtively mailed, and still more fur¬ 
tively received back again by heading off the postman a block 
before he reached our door.” To this dream of authorship— 
the secret of which was carefully guarded from her family— 
she sacrificed her play and even her study hours. The first 
shock to her family came on St. Valentine’s Day. There was 
to be a party that night, her first real party. A new dress was 
ready for the occasion, and a boy escort was to call for her in 
a cab. It happened that Valentine’s day fell on Saturday, 
and Saturday was her time for writing. That day she turned 
from poetry to fiction, and was just in the middle of her first 
story when it came time to get ready for the party. She did 
not get ready. The escort arrived, cab and all; the family 
protested, but all to no purpose. She finished the story, 
mailed it, three weeks later received it back, and began her 
second story. All through her high school days she mailed 
a manuscript every Saturday, and they always came back. 

After high school she entered Washington University, St. 
Louis, graduating in 1909. And still she kept writing. To. 

166 


FANNIE HURST 


167 

one journal alone she sent during those four years, thirty-four 
short stories. And they all came back—all but one. Just be¬ 
fore graduation she sold her first article, a little sketch first 
written as a daily theme, which was published in a local weekly, 
and brought her three dollars. This was the total result of 
eight years’ literary effort. So quite naturally she determined 
to go on. 

She announced to her family that she was going to New 
York City to become a writer. There was a stormy discussion 
in the Hurst family, but it ended in her going away, with a 
bundle of manuscripts in her trunk, to brave the big city alone. 
She found a tiny furnished room and set forth to besiege the 
editors’ offices. One evening she returned, to find the house 
being raided, a patrol wagon at the curb, and the lodgers 
being hustled into it. She crossed the street and walked on, 
and never saw her bag or baggage again. By the help of the 
Young Women’s Christian Association she found another room, 
in different surroundings, and set out again to make the round 
of the editorial offices. 

Then followed months and months of “ writing, rewriting, 
rejections, and re-rejections.” From home came letters now 
beseeching, now commanding her to return, and at length cut¬ 
ting off her allowance. So she returned her rented typewriter 
and applied at a theatrical agency. She secured a small part 
in a Broadway company, and then came her first acceptance 
of a story, with an actual check for thirty dollars. She left 
the stage and rented another typewriter,—but it was six 
months before she sold another story. 

In all this time she dipped deeply into the great stream of the 
city’s life. To quote her own account: 

For a month I lived with an Armenian family on West Broad¬ 
way, in a room over a tobacconist’s shop. I apprenticed myself as 
a sales-girl in New York’s most gigantic department store. Four 
and one-quarter yards of ribbon at seven and a half cents a yard 
proved my Waterloo, and my resignation at the end of one week 


i68 


AMERICANS ALL 


was not entirely voluntary. I served as waitress in one of New 
York’s most gigantic chain of white-tiled lunch rooms. I stitched 
boys’ pants in a Polish sweatshop, and lived for two days in New 
York’s most rococo hotel. I took a graduate course in Anglo Saxon 
at Columbia University, and one in lamp-shade making at Wana- 
maker’s: wormed into a Broadway musical show as wardrobe girl, 
and went out on a self-appointed newspaper assignment to interview 
the mother of the richest baby in the world. 


All these experiences yielded rich material for stories, but 
no one would print them. Her money was gone; so was a dia¬ 
mond ring that had been a Commencement present; it seemed 
as if there was nothing left but to give up the struggle and go 
back home. Then, just as she had struck bottom, an editor 
actually told her she could write, and followed up his remark by 
buying three stories. Since that time she has never had a story 
rejected, and her checks have gone up from two figures into four. 
And so, at the end of a long fight, as she says, “ I find myself 
at twenty-nine exactly where at fourteen I had planned I would 
be. And best of all, what popular success I am enjoying has 
come not from pandering to popular demand or editorial policy, 
but from pandering to my own inner convictions, which are 
like little soul-tapers, lighting the way.” 

All her work has been in the form of the short story. Her 
first book, Just Around the Corner , published in 1914, is a col¬ 
lection of stories dealing with the life of working girls in a 
city. Every Soul Hath Its Song is a similar collection; the 
title suggests the author’s outlook upon life. Some one has 
said that in looking at a puddle of water, you may see either 
the mud at the bottom or the sky reflected on its surface. Miss 
Hurst sees the reflection of the sky. The Boston Transcript 
said of this book: “ Here at last is a story writer who is bent 
on listening to the voices of America and interpreting them.” 
Gaslight Sonatas, from which “ Bitter-Sweet ” is taken, showed 
an advance over her earlier work. Two of the stories from this 
volume were selected by Mr. O’Brien for his volume, Best 


FANNIE HURST 


169 

Short Stories , for 1916 and 1917. Humoresque , her latest 
work, continues her studies of city types, drawn from New 
York and St. Louis. The stories show her insight into character 
and her graphic descriptive power. Miss Hurst is also the 
author of two plays, The Land 0) the Free and The Good 
Provider . 
















IN THE LUMBER COUNTRY 







The men of the woods are not as the men of the cities. The 
great open spaces where men battle with the primeval forest 
set their mark upon their inhabitants, not only in physique but 
in character. The lumberman, — rough, frank, independent, 
humorous, equally ready for a fight or a frolic, has been por¬ 
trayed at full length by Stewart Edward White in The Blazed 
Trail and The Riverman. In the following sketch, taken 
from his Blazed Trail Stories, he shows the lumberman at 
work and at play. 


THE RIVERMAN 


BY 

Stewart Edward White 

I first met him one Fourth of July afternoon in the middle 
eighties. The sawdust streets and high board sidewalks of 
the lumber town were filled to the brim with people. The 
permanent population, dressed in the stiffness of its Sunday 
best, escorted gingham wives or sweethearts; a dozen outsiders 
like myself tried not to be too conspicuous in a city smartness; 
but the great multitude was composed of the men of the woods. 
I sat, chair-til ted by the hotel, watching them pass. Their 
heavy woollen shirts crossed by the broad suspenders, the red 
of their sashes or leather shine of their belts, their short 
kersey trousers “ stagged ” off to leave a gap between the knee 
and the heavily spiked " cork boots ”—all these were dis¬ 
tinctive enough of their class, but most interesting to me were 
the eyes that peered from beneath their little round hats tilted 
rakishly askew. They were all subtly alike, those eyes. Some 
were black, some were brown, or gray, or blue, but all were 
steady and unabashed, all looked straight at you with a strange 
humorous blending of aggression and respect for your own 
business, and all without exception wrinkled at the corners with 
a suggestion of dry humor. In my half-conscious scrutiny I 
probably stared harder than I knew, for all at once a laughing 
pair of blue eyes suddenly met mine full, and an ironical voice 
drawled, 

“ Say, bub, you look as interested as a man killing snakes. 
Am I your long-lost friend? ” 

The tone of the voice matched accurately the attitude of the 


173 


174 


AMERICANS ALL 


man, and that was quite non-committal. He stood cheerfully 
ready to meet the emergency. If I sought trouble, it was here 
to my hand; or if I needed help he was willing to offer it. 

“ I guess you are,” I replied, “ if you can tell me what all 
this outfit’s headed for.” 

He thrust back his hat and ran his hand through a mop of 
closely cropped light curls. 

“ Birling match,” he explained briefly. “ Come on.” 

I joined him, and together we followed the crowd to the 
river, where we roosted like cormorants on adjacent piles over¬ 
looking a patch of clear water among filled booms. 

“ Drive just over,” my new friend informed me. “ Rear 
come down last night. Fourther July celebration. This little 
town will scratch fer th’ tall timber along about midnight when 
the boys goes in to take her apart.” 

A half-dozen men with peavies rolled a white-pine log 
of about a foot and a half in diameter into the clear water, 
where it lay rocking back and forth, three or four feet from the 
boom piles. Suddenly a man ran the length of the boom, 
leaped easily into the air, and landed with both feet square 
on one end of the floating log. That end disappeared in an 
ankle-deep swirl of white foam, the other rose suddenly, the 
whole timber, projected forward by the shock, drove headlong 
to the middle of the little pond. And the man, his arms folded, 
his knees just bent in the graceful nervous attitude of the 
circus-rider, stood upright like a statue of bronze. 

A roar approved this feat. 

“ That’s Dickey Darrell,” said my informant, “ Roaring 
Dick. He’s hell and repeat. Watch him.” 

The man on the log was small, with clean beautiful haunches 
and shoulders, but with hanging baboon arms. Perhaps his 
most striking feature was a mop of reddish-brown hair that 
overshadowed a little triangular white face accented by two 
reddish-brown quadrilaterals that served as eyebrows and a 
pair of inscrutable chipmunk eyes. 


THE RIVERMAN 


175 


For a moment he poised erect in the great calm of the 
public performer. Then slowly he began to revolve the log 
under his feet. The lofty gaze, the folded arms, the straight 
supple waist budged not by a hair’s breadth; only the feet 
stepped forward, at first deliberately, then faster and faster, 
until the rolling log threw a blue spray a foot into the air. 
Then suddenly slap! slap! the heavy caulks stamped a reversal. 
The log came instantaneously to rest, quivering exactly like 
some animal that had been spurred through its paces. 

“ Magnificent! ” I cried. 

“ Hell, that’s nothing! ” my companion repressed me, “ any¬ 
body can birl a log. Watch this.” 

Roaring Dick for the first time unfolded his arms. With 
some appearance of caution he balanced his unstable footing 
into absolute immobility. Then he turned a somersault. 

This was the real thing. My friend uttered a wild yell of 
applause which was lost in a general roar. 

A long pike-pole shot out, bit the end of the timber, and 
towed it to the boom pile. Another man stepped on the log 
with Darrell. They stood facing each other, bent-kneed, 
alert. Suddenly with one accord they commenced to birl the 
log from left to right. The pace grew hot. Like squirrels 
treading a cage their feet twinkled. Then it became apparent 
that Darrell’s opponent was gradually being forced from the top 
of the log. He could not keep up. Little by little, still 
moving desperately, he dropped back to the slant, then at 
last to the edge, and so off into the river with a mighty 
splash. 

“ Clean birled! ” commented my friend. 

One after another a half-dozen rivermen tackled the im¬ 
perturbable Dick, but none of them possessed the agility to 
stay on top in the pace he set them. One boy of eighteen 
seemed for a moment to hold his own, and managed at least to 
keep out of the water even when Darrell had apparently 
reached his maximum speed. But that expert merely threw his 


AMERICANS ALL 


176 

entire weight into two reversing stamps of his feet, and the 
young fellow dove forward as abruptly as though he had been 
shied over a horse’s head. 

The crowd was by now getting uproarious and impatient of 
volunteer effort to humble Darrell’s challenge. It wanted the 
best, and at once. It began, with increasing insistence, to shout 
a name. 

“Jimmy Powers! ” it vociferated, “Jimmy Powers! ” 

And then by shamefaced bashfulness, by profane protest, 
by muttered and comprehensive curses I knew that my com¬ 
panion on the other pile was indicated. 

A dozen men near at hand began to shout. “ Here he is! ” 
they cried. “ Come on, Jimmy.” “ Don’t be a high banker.” 
“ Hang his hide on the fence.” 

Jimmy, still red and swearing, suffered himself to be pulled 
from his elevation and disappeared in the throng. A moment 
later I caught his head and shoulders pushing toward the boom 
piles, and so in a moment he stepped warily aboard to face his 
antagonist. 

This was evidently no question to be determined by the 
simplicity of force or the simplicity of a child’s trick. The two 
men stood half-crouched, face to face, watching each other nar¬ 
rowly, but making no move. To me they seemed like two 
wrestlers sparring for an opening. Slowly the log revolved one 
way; then slowly the other. It was a mere courtesy of salute. 
All at once Dick birled three rapid strokes from left to right as 
though about to roll the log, leaped into the air and landed 
square with both feet on the other slant of the timber. Jimmy 
Powers felt the jar, and acknowledged it by a spasmodic jerk 
with which he counterbalanced Darrell’s weight. But he was 
not thrown. 

As though this daring and hazardous manoeuvre had opened 
the combat, both men sprang to life. Sometimes the log rolled 
one way, sometimes the other, sometimes it jerked from side to 
side like a crazy thing, but always with the rapidity of light, 


THE RIVERMAN 


177 


always in a smother of spray and foam. The decided spat, 
spat, spat of the reversing blows from the caulked boots 
sounded like picket firing. I could not make out the different 
leads, feints, parries, and counters of this strange method of 
boxing, nor could I distinguish to whose initiative the various 
evolutions of that log could be ascribed. But I retain still 
a vivid mental picture of two men nearly motionless above the 
waist, nearly vibrant below it, dominating the insane gyrations 
of a stick of pine. 

The crowd was appreciative and partisan—for Jimmy 
Powers. It howled wildly, and rose thereby to even higher 
excitement. Then it forgot its manners utterly and groaned 
when it made out that a sudden splash represented its favorite, 
while the indomitable Darrell still trod the quarter-deck as 
champion birler for the year. 

I must confess I was as sorry as anybody. I climbed down 
from my cormorant roost, and picked my way between the 
alleys of aromatic piled lumber in order to avoid the press, 
and cursed the little gods heartily for undue partiality in the 
wrong direction. In this manner I happened on Jimmy Powers 
himself seated dripping on a board and examining his bare 
foot. 

“ I’m sorry,” said I behind him. “ How did he do it? ” 

He whirled, and I could see that his laughing boyish face 
had become suddenly grim and stern, and that his eyes were 
shot with blood. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it? ” he growled disparagingly. “ Well, 
that’s how he did it.” 

He held out his foot. Across the instep and at the base 
of the toes ran two rows of tiny round punctures from which 
the blood was oozing. I looked very inquiring. 

“ He corked me! ” Jimmy Powers explained. “ Jammed his 

spikes into me! Stepped on my foot and tripped me, the-” 

Jimmy Powers certainly could swear. 

“ Why didn’t you make a kick? ” I cried. 



i 7 8 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ That ain’t how I do it,” he muttered, pulling on his heavy 
woollen sock. 

“ But no,” I insisted, my indignation mounting. “ It’s an 
outrage! That crowd was with you. All you had to do was to 
say something-” 

He cut me short. “ And give myself away as a damn fool— 
sure Mike. I ought to know Dickey Darrell by this time, and 
I ought to be big enough to take care of myself.” He stamped 
his foot into his driver’s shoe and took me by the arm, his 
good humor apparently restored. “ No, don’t lose any hair, 
bub; I’ll get even with Roaring Dick.” 

That night, having by the advice of the proprietor moved my 
bureau and trunk against the bedroom door, I lay wide awake 
listening to the taking of the town apart. At each especially 
vicious crash I wondered if that might be Jimmy Powers get¬ 
ting even with Roaring Dick. 

The following year, but earlier in the season, I again visited 
my little lumber town. In striking contrast to the life of that 
other midsummer day were the deserted streets. The land¬ 
lord knew me, and after I had washed and eaten approached 
me with a suggestion. 

“You got all day in front of you,” said he; “why don’t 
you take a horse and buggy and make a visit to the big jam? 
Everybody’s up there more or less.” 

In response to my inquiry, he replied: 

“ They’ve jammed at the upper bend, jammed bad. The 
crew’s been picking at her for near a week now, and last night 
Darrell was down to see about some more dynamite. It’s 
worth seein’. The breast of her is near thirty feet high, and 
lots of water in the river.” 

“ Darrell? ” said I, catching at the name. 

“ Yes. He’s rear boss this year. Do you think you’d like 
to take a look at her? ” 

“ I think I should,” I assented. 

The horse and I jogged slowly along a deep sand road, 



THE RIVERMAN 


179 

through wastes of pine stumps and belts of hardwood beau¬ 
tiful with the early spring, until finally we arrived at a clear¬ 
ing in which stood two huge tents, a mammoth kettle slung 
over a fire of logs, and drying racks about the timbers of 
another fire. A fat cook in the inevitable battered derby hat, 
two bare-armed cookees, and a chore “ boy ” of seventy-odd 
summers were the only human beings in sight. One of the 
cookees agreed to keep an eye on my horse. I picked my way 
down a well-worn trail toward the regular clank, clank, click 
of the peavies. 

I emerged finally to a plateau elevated some fifty or sixty 
feet above the river. A half-dozen spectators were already 
gathered. Among them I could not but notice a tall, spare, 
broad-shouldered young fellow dressed in a quiet business suit, 
somewhat wrinkled, whose square, strong, clean-cut face and 
muscular hands were tanned by the weather to a dark umber- 
brown. In another moment I looked down on the jam. 

The breast, as my landlord had told me, rose sheer from 
the water to the height of at least twenty-five feet, bristling 
and formidable. Back of it pressed the volume of logs packed 
closely in an apparently inextricable tangle as far as the eye 
could reach. A man near informed me that the tail was a 
good three miles up stream. From beneath this wonderful 
chevaux de jrise foamed the current of the river, irresistible 
to any force less mighty than the statics of such a mass. 

A crew of forty or fifty men were at work. They clamped 
their peavies to the reluctant timbers, heaved, pushed, slid, and 
rolled them one by one into the current, where they were 
caught and borne away. They had been doing this for a 
week. As yet their efforts had made but slight impression on 
the bulk of the jam, but some time, with patience, they would 
reach the key-logs. Then the tangle would melt like sugar in 
the freshet, and these imperturbable workers would have to 
escape suddenly over the plunging logs to shore. 

My eye ranged over the men, and finally rested on Dickey 


i8o 


AMERICANS ALL 


Darrell. He was standing on the slanting end of an up- 
heaved log dominating the scene. His little triangular face 
with the accents of the quadrilateral eyebrows was pale with 
the blaze of his energy, and his chipmunk eyes seemed to flame 
with a dynamic vehemence that caused those on whom they 
fell to jump as though they had been touched with a hot poker. 
I had heard more of Dickey Darrell since my last visit, and 
was glad of the chance to observe Morrison & Daly’s best 
“ driver ” at work. 

The jam seemed on the very edge of breaking. After 
half an hour’s strained expectation it seemed still on the very 
edge of breaking. So I sat down on a stump. Then for the 
first time I noticed another acquaintance, handling his peavie 
near the very person of the rear boss. 

“ Hullo,” said I to myself, “ that’s funny. I wonder if 
Jimmy Powers got even; and if so, why he is working so 
amicably and so near Roaring Dick.” 

At noon the men came ashore for dinner. I paid a quarter 
into the cook’s private exchequer and so was fed. After the 
meal I approached my acquaintance of the year before. 

“ Hello, Powers,” I greeted him, “ I suppose you don’t re¬ 
member me? ” 

“ Sure,” he responded heartily. “ Ain’t you a little early 
this year? ” 

“ No,” I disclaimed, “ this is a better sight than a birling 
match.” 

I offered him a cigar, which he immediately substituted for 
his corn-cob pipe. We sat at the root of a tree. 

“ It’ll be a great sight when that jam pulls,” said I. 

“ You bet,” he replied, “ but she’s a teaser. Even old Tim 
Shearer would have a picnic to make out just where the key- 
logs are. We’ve started her three times, but she’s plugged 
tight every trip. Likely to pull almost any time.” 

We discussed various topics. Finally I ventured: 

“ I see your old friend Darrell is rear boss.” 


THE RIVERMAN 


181 


“ Yes,” said Jimmy Powers, dryly. 

“ By the way, did you fellows ever square up on that birling 
match? ” 

“ No,” said Jimmy Powers; then after an instant, “Not 
yet.” 

I glanced at him to recognize the square set to the jaw 
that had impressed me so formidably the year before. And 
again his face relaxed almost quizzically as he caught sight of 
mine. 

“ Bub,” said he, getting to his feet, “ those little marks are 
on my foot yet. And just you tie into one idea: Dickey Dar¬ 
rell’s got it coming.” His face darkened with a swift anger. 
“ God damn his soul! ” he said, deliberately. It was no mere 
profanity. It was an imprecation, and in its very deliberation 
I glimpsed the flare of an undying hate. 

About three o’clock that afternoon Jimmy’s prediction was 
fulfilled. Without the slightest warning the jam “pulled.” 
Usually certain premonitory cracks, certain sinkings down, 
groanings forward, grumblings, shruggings, and sullen, reluc¬ 
tant shiftings of the logs give opportunity for the men to 
assure their safety. This jam, after inexplicably hanging fire 
for a week, as inexplicably started like a sprinter almost into 
its full gait. The first few tiers toppled smash into the cur¬ 
rent, raising a waterspout like that made by a dynamite ex¬ 
plosion; the mass behind plunged forward blindly, rising and 
falling as the integral logs were up-ended, turned over, thrust 
one side, or forced bodily into the air by the mighty power 
playing jack-straws with them. 

The rivermen, though caught unaware, reached either bank. 
They held their peavies across their bodies as balancing-poles, 
and zig-zagged ashore with a calmness and lack of haste that 
were in reality only an indication of the keenness with which 
they fore-estimated each chance. Long experience with the 
ways of saw-logs brought them out. They knew the correla¬ 
tion of these many forces just as the expert billiard-player 


182 


AMERICANS ALL 


knows instinctively the various angles of incident and reflec¬ 
tion between his cue-ball and its mark. Consequently they 
avoided the centers of eruption, paused on the spots steadied 
for the moment, dodged moving logs, trod those not yet under 
way, and so arrived on solid ground. The jam itself started 
with every indication of meaning business, gained momentum 
for a hundred feet, and then plugged to a standstill. The 
“ break ” was abortive. 

Now we all had leisure to notice two things. First, the 
movement had not been of the whole jam, as we had at first 
supposed, but only of a block or section of it twenty rods 
or so in extent. Thus between the part that had moved and 
the greater bulk that had not stirred lay a hundred feet of 
open water in which floated a number of loose logs. The sec¬ 
ond fact was, that Dickey Darrell had fallen into that open 
stretch of water and was in the act of swimming toward one 
of the floating logs. That much we were given time to appre¬ 
ciate thoroughly. Then the other section of the jam rumbled 
and began to break. Roaring Dick was caught between two 
gigantic millstones moving to crush him out of sight. 

An active figure darted down the tail of the first section, 
out over the floating logs, seized Darrell by the coat-collar, 
and so burdened began desperately to scale the very face of the 
breaking jam. 

Never was a more magnificent rescue. The logs were rolling, 
falling, diving against the laden man. He climbed as over 
a treadmill, a treadmill whose speed was constantly increasing. 
And when he finally gained the top, it was as the gap closed 
splintering beneath him and the man he had saved. 

It is not in the woodsman to be demonstrative at any time, 
but here was work demanding attention. Without a pause for 
breath or congratulation they turned to the necessity of the 
moment. The jam, the whole jam, was moving at last. Jimmy 
Powers ran ashore for his peavie. Roaring Dick, like a demon 
incarnate, threw himself into the work. Forty men attacked 


THE RIVERMAN 


183 

the jam in a dozen places, encouraging the movement, twisting 
aside the timbers that threatened to lock anew, directing 
pigmy-like the titanic forces into the channel of their effi¬ 
ciency. Roaring like wild cattle the logs swept by, at first 
slowly, then with the railroad rush of the curbed freshet. Men 
were everywhere, taking chances, like cowboys before the 
stampeded herd. And so, out of sight around the lower bend 
swept the front of the jam in a swirl of glory, the rivermen 
riding the great boom back of the creature they subdued, until 
at last, with the slackening current, the logs floated by free, can¬ 
noning with hollow sound one against the other. A half-dozen 
watchers, leaning statuesquely on the shafts of their peavies, 
watched the ordered ranks pass by. 

One by one the spectators departed. At last only myself 
and the brown-faced young man remained. He sat on a stump, 
staring with sightless eyes into vacancy. I did not disturb his 
thoughts. 

The sun dipped. A cool breeze of evening sucked up the 
river. Over near the cook-camp a big fire commenced to 
crackle by the drying frames. At dusk the rivermen straggled 
in from the down-river trail. 

The brown-faced young man arose and went to meet them. 
I saw him return in close conversation with Jimmy Powers. 
Before they reached us he had turned away with a gesture of 
farewell. 

Jimmy Powers stood looking after him long after his form 
had disappeared, and indeed even after the sound of his wheels 
had died toward town. As I approached, the riverman turned 
to me a face from which the reckless, contained self-reliance 
of the woods-worker had faded. It was wide-eyed with an al¬ 
most awe-stricken wonder and adoration. 

“ Dc you know who that is? ” he asked me in a hushed 
voice “ That’s Thorpe, Harry Thorpe. And do you know 
what he said to me just now, me? He told me he wanted me 
to work in Camp One next winter, Thorpe’s One. And he 


184 AMERICANS ALL 

told me I was the first man he ever hired straight into 
One” 

His breath caught with something like a sob. 

I had heard of the man and of his methods. I knew he had 
made it a practice of recruiting for his prize camp only from the 
employees of his other camps, that, as Jimmy said, he never 
“ hired straight into One.” I had heard, too, of his reputation 
among his own and other woodsmen. But this was the first 
time I had ever come into personal contact with his influence. 
It impressed me the more in that I had come to know Jimmy 
Powers and his kind. 

“ You deserve it, every bit,” said I. “ Fm not going to call 
you a hero, because that would make you tired. What you did 
this afternoon showed nerve. It was a brave act. But it was a 
better act because your rescued your enemy, because you forgot 
everything but your common humanity when danger-” 

I broke off. Jimmy was again looking at me with his 
ironically quizzical grin. 

“ Bub,” said he, “ if you’re going to hang any stars of 
Bethlehem on my Christmas tree, just call a halt right here. I 
didn’t rescue that scalawag because I had any Christian senti¬ 
ments, nary bit. I was just naturally savin’ him for the 
birling match next Fourther July.” 



STEWART EDWARD WHITE 


There are some authors whom we think of as bookmen; 
there are others whom we think of as men first, and as writers 
secondarily. Lowell, for example was a bookman; Roosevelt 
was a man of action who wrote books. Stewart Edward White, 
far more of a literary artist than Roosevelt, gives like him 
the impression of a man who has done things, of one who lives 
a full life, and produces books as a sort of by-product: very 
valuable, but not the chief end of existence. 

Mr. White was born in a small town near Grand Rapids, 
Michigan, March 12, 1873. His parents had their own ideas 
about bringing up children. Instead of sending him to school 
they sent for a teacher to instruct him, they encouraged him to 
read, they took him traveling, not only to cities but to the silent 
places, the great forests, and to the lumber camps. He spent 
four years in California, and became a good horseman, making 
many trips in the saddle to the picturesque old ranches. When 
finally, he entered high school, at sixteen, he went in with boys 
of his own age, and graduated at eighteen, president of his class. 
And what he was most proud of was that he won and still 
holds, the five-mile running record of his school. He was in¬ 
tensely interested in birds at this time, and spent all his spare 
hours in the woods, studying bird-life. The result was a series 
of articles on birds, published in various scientific journals,— 
papers whose columns are not usually open to high school con¬ 
tributors. 

Then came a college course at the University of Michigan, 
with vacations spent in cruising about the Great Lakes in a 
twenty-eight-foot cutter sloop. After graduation he worked for 
a time in a packing house, then hearing of the discovery of 

185 


i86 


AMERICANS ALL 


gold in the Black Hills, he set off with the other gold-diggers. 
He did not find a mine, but the experience gave him a back¬ 
ground for two later novels, The Claim Jumpers, and The 
Westerners. 

He went east for a year of graduate study at Columbia 
University. Like many other students, he found a friend in 
Professor Brander Matthews, who encouraged him to write of 
some of his western experiences. He sold a few short stories 
to magazines, and his first novel, The Claim Jumpers was ac¬ 
cepted by Appleton’s. The Westerners, his next book, brought 
him $500 for the serial rights, and with its publication he defi¬ 
nitely determined upon making authorship his calling. But it 
was not authorship in a study. The Blazed Trail was written in 
a lumber camp in midwinter. He got up at four o’clock, wrote 
until eight, then put on his snowshoes and went out for a day’s 
work. When the story was finished he gave it to the foreman 
of the camp to read. The man began it after supper, and when 
White got up next morning at four, he found him still reading, 
so he felt that the book would succeed. 

Another year he made a trip to the Hudson Bay country, 
and on his return wrote Conjurer’s House. This was dra¬ 
matized by George Broadhurst, and was very successful on the 
stage. With Thomas Fogarty, the artist, he made a long canoe 
trip, and the resulting book, The Forest, was illustrated by 
Mr. Fogarty. A camping trip in the Sierra Mountains of Cali¬ 
fornia was followed by the writing of The Mountains. His 
next book, The Mystery, was written jointly by Mr. White and 
Samuel Hopkins Adams. When it was finished they not only 
divided the proceeds but divided the characters for future 
stories, White taking Handy Solomon, whom he used again in 
Arizona Nights, and Darrow, who appeared in The Sign at Six. 

Then without warning, Mr. White went to Africa. His 
explanation was simple: 

I went because I wanted to. About once in so often the wheels 
get rusty and I have to get up and do something real or else blow 


STEWART EDWARD WHITE 187 

up. Africa seemed to me a pretty real thing. Let me add that I 
did not go for material. I never go anywhere for material; if I did 
I should not get it. That attitude of mine would give me merely 
externals, which are not worth writing about. I go places merely 
because for one reason or another they attract me. Then if it hap¬ 
pens that I get close enough to the life, I may later find that I have 
something to write about. A man rarely writes anything convincing 
unless he has lived the life; not with his critical faculty alert, but 
whole-heartedly and because, for the time being, it is his life. 

Naturally he found that he had something to write about on 
his return. The Land of Footprints, African Camp Fires, Simba, 
and The Leopard Woman were books that grew out of his Afri¬ 
can trip. Mr. White next planned to write a series of three novels 
dealing with the romantic history of the state of California. 
The first of these books, Gold, describes the mad rush of the 
Forty-Niners on the first discovery of gold in California. The 
Gray Dawn, the second of the series, tells of the days of the 
Vigilantes, when the wild life of the mining camps slowly 
settled down to law and order. The coming of the World War 
was a fresh challenge to his adventurous spirit, and he saw serv¬ 
ice in France as a major in the U. S. Field Artillery. 

From this sketch it is apparent that Mr. White’s books have 
all grown out of his experience, in the sense that the back¬ 
ground is one that he has known. This explains the strong 
feeling of reality that we experience as we read his stories. 


/ 




NEW ENGLAND GRANITE 


From the day the Pilgrims landed on a rockbound coast, the 
name New Englander has suggested certain traits oj character . 
It connotes a restraint of feeling which more impulsive persons 
may mistake for absence of feeling; a reserve carried almost 
to the point of coldness; a quiet dignity which to a breezy 
Westerner seems like “ stand-offishness.” But those who come 
to know New England people well, find that beneath the flint 
is fire. Dorothy Canfield suggests the theme of her story in 
the title—“ Flint and Fire.” 


FLINT AND FIRE 


BY 

Dorothy Canfield 

My husband’s cousin had come up from the city, slightly 
more faggpd and sardonic than usual, and as he stretched him¬ 
self out in the big porch-chair he was even more caustic than 
was his wont about the bareness and emotional sterility of the 
lives of our country people. 

“ Perhaps they had, a couple of centuries ago, when the 
Puritan hallucination was still strong, a certain fierce savor 
of religious intolerance; but now that that has died out, and 
no material prosperity has come to let them share in the 
larger life of their century, there is a flatness, a mean absence 
of warmth or color, a deadness to all emotions but the pettiest 
sorts-” 

I pushed the pitcher nearer him, clinking the ice invitingly, 
and directed his attention to our iris-bed as a more cheerful 
object of contemplation than the degeneracy of the inhabi¬ 
tants of Vermont. The flowers burned on their tall stalks 
like yellow tongues of flame. The strong, sword-like green 
leaves thrust themselves boldly up into the spring air like a 
challenge. The plants vibrated with vigorous life. 

In the field beyond them, as vigorous as they, strode Adoni- 
ram Purdon behind his team, the reins tied together behind his 
muscular neck, his hands grasping the plow with the masterful 
sureness of the successful practitioner of an art. The hot, 
sweet spring sunshine shone down on ’Niram’s head with its 
thick crest of brown hair, the ineffable odor of newly turned 
earth steamed up about him like incense, the mountain 
stream beyond him leaped and shouted. His powerful body 
answered every call made on it with the precision of a splen- 

191 



192 


AMERICANS ALL 


did machine. But there was no elation in the grimly set face as 
’Niram wrenched the plow around a big stone, or as, in a 
more favorable furrow, the gleaming share sped steadily along 
before the plowman, turning over a long, unbroken brown rib¬ 
bon of earth. 

My cousin-in-law waved a nervous hand toward the sternly 
silent figure as it stepped doggedly behind the straining team, 
the head bent forward, the eyes fixed on the horses* heels. 

“ There! ” he said. “ There is an example of what I mean. 
Is there another race on earth which could produce a man 
in such a situation who would not on such a day sing, or 
whistle, or at least hold up his head and look at all the earthly 
glories about him? ” 

I was silent, but not for lack of material for speech. 
’Niram’s reasons for austere self-control were not such as I 
cared to discuss with a man of my cousin’s mental attitude. 
As we sat looking at him the noon whistle from the village 
blew and the wise old horses stopped in the middle of a furrow. 
’Niram unharnessed them, led them to the shade of a tree, 
and put on their nose-bags. Then he turned and came to¬ 
ward the house. 

“ Don’t I seem to remember,” murmured my cousin under 
his breath, “ that, even though he is a New-Englander, he 
has been known to make up errands to your kitchen to see 
your pretty Ev’leen Ann? ” 

I looked at him hard; but he was only gazing down, rather 
cross-eyed, on his grizzled mustache, with an obvious petu¬ 
lant interest in the increase of white hairs in it. Evidently 
his had been but a chance shot. ’Niram stepped up on the 
grass at the edge of the porch. He was so tall that he 
overtopped the railing easily, and, reaching a long arm over 
to where I sat, he handed me a small package done up in 
yellowish tissue-paper. Without hat-raisings, or good-morn¬ 
ings or any other of the greetings usual in a more effusive 
civilization, he explained briefly: 


FLINT AND FIRE 


193 


“ My stepmother wanted I should give you this. She said 
to thank you for the grape-juice.” As he spoke he looked 
at me gravely out of deep-set blue eyes, and when he had de¬ 
livered his message he held his peace. 

I expressed myself with the babbling volubility of one whose 
manners have been corrupted by occasional sojourns in the 
city. “ Oh, ’Niram! ” I cried protestingly, as I opened the 
package and took out an exquisitely wrought old-fashioned 
collar. “ Oh, ’Niram! How could your stepmother give such 
a thing away? Why, it must be one of her precious old relics. 
I don’t want her to give me something every time I do some 
little thing for her. Can’t a neighbor send her in a few bottles 
of grape-juice without her thinking she must pay it back 
somehow? It’s not kind of her. She has never yet let me do 
the least thing for her without repaying me with something 
that is worth ever so much more than my trifling services.” 

When I had finished my prattling, ’Niram repeated, with 
an accent of finality, “ She wanted I should give it to you.” 

The older man stirred in his chair. Without looking at 
him I knew that his gaze on the young rustic was quizzical 
and that he was recording on the tablets of his merciless mem¬ 
ory the ungraceful abruptness of the other’s action and manner. 

“ How is your stepmother feeling to-day, ’Niram? ” I 
asked. 

“ Worse.” 

’Niram came to a full stop with the word. My cousin 
covered his satirical mouth with his hand. 

“ Can’t the doctor do anything to relieve her? ” I asked. 

’Niram moved at last from his Indian-like immobility. He 
looked up under the brim of his felt hat at the sky-line of the 
mountain, shimmering iridescent above us. “ He says maybe 
’lectricity would help her some. I’m goin’ to git her the bat¬ 
teries and things soon’s I git the rubber bandages paid for.” 

There was a long silence. My cousin stood up, yawning, 
and sauntered away toward the door. “ Shall I send Ev’leen 


194 


AMERICANS ALL 


Ann out to get the pitcher and glasses? ” he asked in an accent 
which he evidently thought very humorously significant. 

The strong face under the felt hat turned white, the jaw 
muscles set hard, but for all this show of strength there was 
an instant when the man’s eyes looked out with the sick, help¬ 
less revelation of pain they might have had when ’Niram was 
a little boy of ten, a third of his present age, and less than half 
his present stature. Occasionally it is horrifying to see how 
a chance shot rings the bell. 

“No, no! Never mind! ” I said hastily. “I’ll take the 
tray in when I go.” 

Without salutation or farewell ’Niram Purdon turned and 
went back to his work. 

The porch was an enchanted place, walled around with star¬ 
lit darkness, visited by wisps of breezes shaking down from their 
wings the breath of lilac and syringa, flowering wild grapes, 
and plowed fields. Down at the foot of our sloping lawn the 
little river, still swollen by the melted snow from the mountains, 
plunged between its stony banks and shouted its brave song 
to the stars. 

We three middle-aged people—Paul, his cousin, and I— 
had disposed our uncomely, useful, middle-aged bodies in the 
big wicker chairs and left them there while our young souls 
wandered abroad in the sweet, dark glory of the night. At 
least Paul and I were doing this, as we sat, hand in hand, 
thinking of a May night twenty years before. One never 
knows what Horace is thinking of, but apparently he was 
not in his usual captious vein, for after a long pause he re¬ 
marked, “ It is a night almost indecorously inviting to the mak¬ 
ing of love.” 

My answer seemed grotesquely out of key with this, but its 
sequence was clear in my mind. I got up, saying: “ Oh, that 
reminds me—I must go and see Ev’leen Ann. I’d forgotten 
to plan to-morrow’s dinner.” 

“ Oh, everlastingly Ev’leen Ann! ” mocked Horace from his 


FLINT AND FIRE 


195 

corner. “ Can’t you think of anything but Ev’leen Ann and 
her affairs? ” 

I felt my way through the darkness of the house, toward 
the kitchen, both doors of which were tightly closed. When 
I stepped into the hot, close room, smelling of food and fire, 
I saw Ev’leen Ann sitting on the straight kitchen chair, the 
yellow light of the bracket-lamp bearing down on her heavy 
braids and bringing out the exquisitely subtle modeling of her 
smooth young face. Her hands were folded in her lap. She 
was staring at the blank wall, and the expression of her eyes 
so startled and shocked me that I stopped short and would have 
retreated if it had not been too late. She had seen me, roused 
herself, and said quietly, as though continuing a conversation 
interrupted the moment before: 

“ I had been thinking that there was enough left of the 
roast to make hash-balls for dinner ”—“ hash-balls ” is Ev’¬ 
leen Ann’s decent Anglo-Saxon name for croquettes—“ and 
maybe you’d like a rhubarb pie.” 

I knew well enough she had been thinking of no such thing, 
but I could as easily have slapped a reigning sovereign on the 
back as broken in on the regal reserve of Ev’leen Ann in her 
clean gingham. 

“ Well, yes, Ev’leen Ann,” I answered in her own tone of 
reasonable consideration of the matter; “that would be nice, 
and your pie-crust is so flaky that even Mr. Horace will have 
to be pleased.” 

“ Mr. Horace ” is our title for the sardonic cousin whose 
carping ways are half a joke, and half a menace in our family. 

Ev’leen Ann could not manage the smile which should have 
greeted this sally. She looked down soberly at the white-pine 
top of the kitchen table and said, “ I guess there is enough 
sparrow-grass up in the garden for a mess, too, if you’d like 
that.” 

“ That would taste very good,” I agreed, my heart aching 
for her. 


196 


AMERICANS ALL 


“And creamed potatoes,” she finished bravely, thrusting 
my unspoken pity from her. 

“ You know I like creamed potatoes better than any other 
kind,” I concurred. 

There was a silence. It seemed inhuman to go and leave 
the stricken young thing to fight her trouble alone in the ugly 
prison, her work-place, though I thought I could guess why 
Ev’leen Ann had shut the doors so tightly. I hung near her, 
searching my head for something to say, but she helped me 
by no casual remark. ’Niram is not the only one of our 
people who possesses to the full the supreme gift of silence. 
Finally I mentioned the report of a case of measles in the 
village, and Ev’leen Ann responded in kind with the news that 
her Aunt Emma had bought a potato-planter. Ev’leen Ann 
is an orphan, brought up by a well-to-do spinster aunt, who 
is strong-minded and runs her own farm. After a time we 
glided by way of similar transitions to the mention of his 
name. 

“ ’Niram Purdon tells me his stepmother is no better,” I 
said. “ Isn’t it too bad? ” I thought it well for Ev’leen Ann 
to be dragged out of her black cave of silence once in a while, 
even if it could be done only by force. As she made no 
answer, I went on. “ Everybody who knows ’Niram thinks it 
splendid of him to do so much for his stepmother.” 

Ev’leen Ann responded with a detached air, as though speak¬ 
ing of a matter in China: “ Well, it ain’t any more than what 
he should. She was awful good to him when he was little and 
his father got so sick. I guess ’Niram wouldn’t ha’ had much 
to eat if she hadn’t ha’ gone out sewing to earn it for him and 
Mr. Purdon.” She added firmly, after a moment’s pause, “ No, 
ma’am, I don’t guess it’s any more than what ’Niram had ought 
to do.” 

“ But it’s very hard on a young man to feel that he’s not 
able to marry,” I continued. Once in a great while we came 
so near the matter as this. Ev’leen Ann made no answer. Her 


FLINT AND FIRE 


197 

face took on a pinched look of sickness. She set her lips as 
though she would never speak again. But I knew that a 
criticism of ’Niram would always rouse her, and said: “ And 
really, I think ’Niram makes a great mistake to act as he 
does. A wife would be a help to him. She could take care 
of Mrs. Purdon and keep the house.” 

Ev’leen Ann rose to the bait, speaking quickly with some 
heat: “ I guess ’Niram knows what’s right for him to do! 
He can’t afford to marry when he can’t even keep up with the 
doctor’s bills and all. He keeps the house himself, nights and 
mornings, and Mrs. Purdon is awful handy about taking care 
of herself, for all she’s bedridden. That’s her way, you know. 
She can’t bear to have folks do for her. She’d die before she’d 
let anybody do anything for her that she could anyways do 
for herself! ” 

I sighed acquiescingly. Mrs. Purdon’s fierce independence 
was a rock on which every attempt at sympathy or help shat¬ 
tered itself to atoms. There seemed to be no other emotion 
left in her poor old work-worn shell of a body. As I looked 
at Ev’leen Ann it seemed rather a hateful characteristic, and 
I remarked, “ It seems to me it’s asking a good deal of ’Niram 
to spoil his life in order that his stepmother can go on pretend¬ 
ing she’s independent.” 

Ev’leen Ann explained hastily: “ Oh, ’Niram doesn’t tell 
her anything about—She doesn’t know he would like to—he 
don’t want she should be worried—and, anyhow, as ’tis, he 
can’t earn enough to keep ahead of all the doctors cost.” 

“ But the right kind of a wife—a good, competent girl— 
could help out by earning something, too.” 

Ev’leen Ann looked at me forlornly, with no surprise. The 
idea was evidently not new to her. “ Yes, ma’am, she could. 
But ’Niram says he ain’t the kind of man to let his wife go 
out working.” Even while she dropped under the killing ver¬ 
dict of his pride she was loyal to his standards and uttered 
no complaint. She went on, “ ’Niram wants Aunt Em’line to 


AMERICANS ALL 


198 

have things the way she wants ’em, as near as he can give ’em 
to her—and it’s right she should.” 

“ Aunt Emeline? ” I repeated, surprised at her absence of 
mind. “ You mean Mrs. Purdon, don’t you? ” 

Ev’leen Ann looked vexed at her slip, but she scorned to 
attempt any concealment. She explained dryly, with the shy, 
stiff embarrassment our country people have in speaking of 
private affairs: “Well, she is my Aunt Em’line, Mrs. Purdon 
is, though I don’t hardly ever call her that. You see, Aunt 
Emma brought me up, and she and Aunt Em’line don’t have 
anything to do with each other. They were twins, and when 
they were girls they got edgeways over ’Niram’s father, when 
’Niram was a baby and his father was a young widower and 
come courting. Then Aunt Em’line married him, and Aunt 
Emma never spoke to her afterward.” 

Occasionally, in walking unsuspectingly along one of our 
leafy lanes, some such fiery geyser of ancient heat uprears 
itself in a boiling column. I never get used to it, and started 
back now. 

“ Why, I never heard of that before, and I’ve known your 
Aunt Emma and Mrs. Purdon for years! ” 

“ Well, they’re pretty old now,” said Ev’leen Ann listlessly, 
with the natural indifference of self-centered youth to the 
bygone tragedies of the preceding generation. “ It happened 
quite some time ago. And both of them were so touchy, 
if anybody seemed to speak about it, that folks got in the way 
of letting it alone. First Aunt Emma wouldn’t speak to her 
sister because she’d married the man she’d wanted, and then 
when Aunt Emma made out so well farmin’ and got so well off, 
why, then Mrs. Purdon wouldn’t try to make up because she 
was so poor. That was after Mr. Purdon had had his stroke 
of paralysis and they’d lost their farm and she’d taken to goin’ 
out sewin’—not but what she was always perfectly satisfied 
with her bargain. She always acted as though she’d rather 
have her husband’s old shirt stuffed with straw than any other 


FLINT AND FIRE 199 

man’s whole body. He was a real nice man, I guess, Mr. Pur- 
don was.” 

There I had it—the curt, unexpanded chronicle of two pas¬ 
sionate lives. And there I had also the key to Mrs. Purdon’s 
fury of independence. It was the only way in which she could 
defend her husband against the charge, so damning to her 
world, of not having provided for his wife. It was the only 
monument she could rear to her husband’s memory. And her 
husband had been all there was in life for her! 

I stood looking at her young kinswoman’s face, noting the 
granite under the velvet softness of its youth, and divining 
the flame underlying the granite. I longed to break through 
her wall and to put my arms about her, and on the impulse 
of the moment I cast aside the pretense of causualness in our 
talk. 

“Oh, my dear! ” I said. “Are you and ’Niram always to 
go on like this? Can’t anybody help you? ” 

Ev’leen Ann looked at me, her face suddenly old and gray. 
“No, ma’am; we ain’t going to go on this way. We’ve de¬ 
cided, ’Niram and I have, that it ain’t no use. We’ve decided 
that we’d better not go places together any more or see each 
other. It’s too—If ’Niram thinks we can’t ”—she flamed 
so that I knew she was burning from head to foot—“ it’s bet¬ 
ter for us not-” She ended in a muffled voice, hiding her 

face in the crook of her arm. 

Ah, yes; now I knew why Ev’leen Ann had shut out the 
passionate breath of the spring night! 

I stood near her, a lump in my throat, but I divined the 
anguish of her shame at her involuntary self-revelation, and 
respected it. I dared do no more than to touch her shoulder 
gently. 

The door behind us rattled. Ev’leen Ann sprang up and 
turned her face toward the wall. Paul’s cousin came in, 
shuffling a little, blinking his eyes in the light of the unshaded 
lamp, and looking very cross and tired. He glanced at us 



200 


AMERICANS ALL 


without comment as he went over to the sink. “Nobody 
offered me anything good to drink,” he complained, “so I 
came in to get some water from the faucet for my nightcap.” 

When he had drunk with ostentation from the tin dipper 
he went to the outside door and flung it open. “ Don’t you 
people know how hot and smelly it is in here? ” he said, with 
his usual unceremonious abruptness. 

The night wind burst in, eddying, and puffed out the lamp 
with a breath. In an instant the room was filled with coolness 
and perfumes and the rushing sound of the river. Out of the 
darkness came Ev’leen Ann’s young voice. “ It seems to 
me,” she said, as though speaking to herself, “ that I never 
heard the Mill Brook sound so loud as it has this spring.” 

I woke up that night with the start one has at a sudden call. 
But there had been no call. A profound silence spread it¬ 
self through the sleeping house. Outdoors the wind had died 
down. Only the loud brawl of the river broke the stillness 
under the stars. But all through this silence and this vibrant 
song there rang a soundless menace which brought me out of 
bed and to my feet before I was awake. I heard Paul say, 
“ What’s the matter? ” in a sleepy voice, and “ Nothing,” I 
answered, reaching for my dressing gown and slippers. I lis¬ 
tened for a moment, my head ringing with all the frightened 
tales of the morbid vein of violence which runs through the 
character of our reticent people. There was still no sound. 
I went along the hall and up the stairs to Ev’leen Ann’s room, 
and I opened the door without knocking. The room was 
empty. 

Then how I ran! Calling loudly for Paul to join me, I ran 
down the two flights of stairs, out of the open door, and along 
the hedged path which leads down to the little river. The star¬ 
light was clear. I could see everything as plainly as though in 
early dawn. I saw the river, and I saw—Ev’leen Ann. 

There was a dreadful moment of horror, which I shall never 


FLINT AND FIRE 


201 


remember very clearly, and then Ev’leen Ann and I—both very 
wet—stood on the bank, shuddering in each other’s arms. 

Into our hysteria there dropped, like a pungent caustic, the 
arid voice of Horace, remarking, “ Well, are you two people 
crazy, or are you walking in your sleep? ” 

I could feel Ev’leen Ann stiffen in my arms, and I fairly 
stepped back from her in astonished admiration as I heard 
her snatch at the straw thus offered, and still shuddering 
horribly from head to foot, force herself to say quite con¬ 
nectedly: “ Why—yes—of course—I’ve always heard about 
my grandfather Parkman’s walking in his sleep. Folks said 
’twould come out in the family some time.” 

Paul was close behind Horace—I wondered a little at his not 
being first—and with many astonished and inane ejaculations, 
such as people always make on startling occasions, we made 
our way back into the house to hot blankets and toddies. But 
I slept no more that night. 

Some time after dawn, however, I did fall into a troubled 
unconsciousness full of bad dreams, and only woke when the 
sun was quite high. I opened my eyes to see Ev’leen Ann about 
to close the door. 

“ Oh, did I wake you up? ” she said. “ I didn’t mean to. 
That little Harris boy is here with a letter for you.” 

She spoke with a slightly defiant tone of self-possession. I 
tried to play up to her interpretation of her role. 

“ The little Harris boy? ” I said, sitting up in bed. “ What 
in the world is he bringing me a letter for? ” 

Ev’leen Ann, with her usual clear perception of the super¬ 
fluous in conversation, vouchsafed no opinion on a matter where 
she had no information, but went downstairs and brought back 
the note. It was of four lines, and—surprisingly enough— 
from old Mrs. Purdon, who asked me abruptly if I would have 
my husband take me to see her. She specified, and underlined 
the specification, that I was to come “ right off, and in the 
automobile.” Wondering extremely at this mysterious bidding, 


202 


AMERICANS ALL 


I sought out Paul, who obediently cranked up our small car 
and carried me off. There was no sign of Horace about the 
house, but some distance on the other side of the village we saw 
his tall, stooping figure swinging along the road. He carried a 
cane and was characteristically occupied in violently switching 
off the heads from the wayside weeds as he walked. He re¬ 
fused our offer to take him in, alleging that he was out for 
exercise and to reduce his flesh—an ancient jibe at his 
bony frame which made him for an instant show a leathery 
smile. 

There was, of course, no one at Mrs. Purdon’s to let us into 
the tiny, three-roomed house, since the bedridden invalid spent 
her days there alone while ’Niram worked his team on other 
people’s fields. Not knowing what we might find, Paul stayed 
outside in the car, while I stepped inside in answer to Mrs. 
Purdon’s “ Come in, why don’t you! ” which sounded quite 
as dry as usual. But when I saw her I knew that things were 
not as usual. 

She lay flat on her back, the little emaciated wisp of human¬ 
ity, hardly raising the piecework quilt enough to make the bed 
seem occupied, and to account for the thin, worn old face on 
the pillow. But as I entered the room her eyes seized on 
mine, and I was aware of nothing but them and some fury of 
determination behind them. With a fierce heat of impatience 
at my first natural but quickly repressed exclamation of sur¬ 
prise she explained briefly that she wanted Paul to lift her 
into the automobile and take her into the next township to 
the Hulett farm. “ I’m so shrunk away to nuthin’, I know 
I can lay on the back seat if I crook myself up,” she said, with 
a cool accent but a rather shaky voice. Seeming to realize that 
even her intense desire to strike the matter-of-fact note could 
not take the place of any and all explanation of her extra¬ 
ordinary request, she added, holding my eyes steady with her 
own: “ Emma Hulett’s my twin sister. I guess it ain’t so 
queer, my wanting to see her.” 


FLINT AND FIRE 


203 


I thought, of course, we were to be used as the medium 
for some strange, sudden family reconciliation, and went out 
to ask Paul if he thought he could carry the old invalid to 
the car. He replied that, so far as that went, he could carry 
so thin an old body ten times around the town, but that he 
refused absolutely to take such a risk without authorization 
from her doctor. I remembered the burning eyes of resolution 
I had left inside, and sent him to present his objections to Mrs. 
Purdon herself. 

In a few moments I saw him emerge from the house with the 
old woman in his arms. He had evidently taken her up just 
as she lay. The piecework quilt hung down in long folds, flash¬ 
ing its brilliant reds and greens in the sunshine, which shone so 
strangely upon the pallid old countenance, facing the open sky 
for the first time in years. 

We drove in silence through the green and gold lyric of the 
spring day, an elderly company sadly out of key with the 
triumphant note of eternal youth which rang through all the 
visible world. Mrs. Purdon looked at nothing, said nothing, 
seemed to be aware of nothing but the purpose in her heart, 
whatever that might be. Paul and I, taking a leaf from our 
neighbors’ book, held, with a courage like theirs, to their ex¬ 
cellent habit of saying nothing when there is nothing to say. 
We arrived at the fine old Hulett place without the exchange 
of a single word. 

“ Now carry me in,” said Mrs. Purdon briefly, evidently 
hoarding her strength. 

“ Wouldn’t I better go and see if Miss Hulett is at home? ” 
I asked. 

Mrs. Purdon shook her head impatiently and turned her 
compelling eyes on my husband. I went up the path before 
them to knock at the door, wondering what the people in the 
house would possibly be thinking of us. There was no an¬ 
swer to my knock. “ Open the door and go in,” commanded 
Mrs. Purdon from out her quilt. 


204 


AMERICANS ALL 


There was no one in the spacious, white-paneled hall, and 
no sound in all the big, many-roomed house. 

“ Emma’s out feeding the hens,” conjectured Mrs. Purdon, 
not, I fancied, without a faint hint of relief in her voice. “ Now 
carry me up-stairs to the first room on the right.” 

Half hidden by his burden, Paul rolled wildly inquiring eyes 
at me; but he obediently staggered up the broad old staircase, 
and waiting till I had opened the first door to the right, stepped 
into the big bedroom. 

“ Put me down on the bed, and open them shutters,” Mrs. 
Purdon commanded. 

She still marshaled her forces with no lack of decision, but 
with a fainting voice which made me run over to her quickly as 
Paul laid her down on the four-poster. Her eyes were still 
indomitable, but her mouth hung open slackly and her color was 
startling. “ Oh, Paul, quick! quick! Haven’t you your flask 
with you? ” 

Mrs. Purdon informed me in a barely audible whisper, “ In 
the corner cupboard at the head of the stairs,” and I flew down 
the hallway. I returned with a bottle, evidently of great age. 
There was only a little brandy in the bottom, but it whipped 
up a faint color into the sick woman’s lips. 

As I was bending over her and Paul was thrusting open the 
shutters, letting in a flood of sunshine and flecky leaf-shadows, 
a firm, rapid step came down the hall, and a vigorous woman, 
with a tanned face and a clean, faded gingham dress, stopped 
short in the doorway with an expression of stupefaction. 

Mrs. Purdon put me on one side, and although she was 
physically incapable of moving her body by a hair’s breadth, 
she gave the effect of having risen to meet the newcomer. 
“ Well, Emma, here I am,” she said in a queer voice, with in¬ 
voluntary quavers in it. As she went on she had it more under 
control, although in the course of her extraordinarily succinct 
speech it broke and failed her occasionally. When it did, she 
drew in her breath with an audible, painful effort, struggling 


FLINT AND FIRE 


205 

forward steadily in what she had to say. “ You see, Emma, 
it’s this way: My ’Niram and your Ev’leen Ann have been keep¬ 
ing company—ever since they went to school together—you 
know that ’s well as I do, for all we let on we didn’t, only I 
didn’t know till just now how hard they took it. They can’t 
get married because ’Niram can’t keep even, let alone get 
ahead any, because I cost so much bein’ sick, and the doctor 
says I may live for years this way, same’s Aunt Hettie did. 
An’ ’Niram is thirty-one, an’ Ev’leen Ann is twenty-eight, an’ 
they’ve had ’bout’s much waitin’ as is good for folks that set 
such store by each other. I’ve thought of every way out of it— 
and there ain’t any. The Lord knows I don’t enjoy livin’ any, 
not so’s to notice the enjoyment, and I’d thought of cutting 
my throat like Uncle Lish, but that’d make ’Niram and Ev’¬ 
leen Ann feel so—to think why I’d done it; they’d never take 
the comfort they’d ought in bein’ married; so that won’t do. 
There’s only one thing to do. I guess you’ll have to take care 
of me till the Lord calls me. Maybe I won’t last so long as the 
doctor thinks.” 

When she finished, I felt my ears ringing in the silence. She 
had walked to the sacrificial altar with so steady a step, and 
laid upon it her precious all with so gallant a front of quiet 
resolution, that for an instant I failed to take in the sublimity 
of her self-immolation. Mrs. Purdon asking for charity! And 
asking the one woman who had most reason to refuse it to her. 

Paul looked at me miserably, the craven desire to escape 
a scene written all over him. “ Wouldn’t we better be going, 
Mrs. Purdon? ” I said uneasily. I had not ventured to look 
at the woman in the doorway. 

Mrs. Purdon motioned me to remain, with an imperious 
gesture whose fierceness showed the tumult underlying her 
brave front. “ No; I want you should stay. I want you should 
hear what I say, so’s you can tell folks, if you have to. Now, 
look here, Emma,” she went on to the other, still obstinately 
silent; “ you must look at it the way ’tis. We’re neither of us 


206 


AMERICANS ALL 


any good to anybody, the way we are—and I’m dreadfully in 
the way of the only two folks we care a pin about—either of 
us. You’ve got plenty to do with, and nothing to spend it on. 
I can’t get myself out of their way by dying without going 

against what’s Scripture and proper, but-” Her steely calm 

broke. She burst out in a screaming, hysterical voice: “ You’ve 
just got to, Emma Hulett! You’ve just got to! If you don’t 
I won’t never go back to ’Niram’s house! I’ll lie in the ditch 
by the roadside till the poor-master comes to get me—and I’ll 
tell everybody that it’s because my own twin sister, with a house 
and a farm and money in the bank, turned me out to starve—” 
A fearful spasm cut her short. She lay twisted and limp, the 
whites of her eyes showing between the lids. 

“ Good God, she’s gone! ” cried Paul, running to the bed. 

I was aware that the woman in the doorway had relaxed 
her frozen immobility and was between Paul and me as we 
rubbed the thin, icy hands and forced brandy between the 
placid lips. We all three thought her dead or dying, and 
labored over her with the frightened thankfulness for one 
another’s living presence which always marks that dreadful 
moment. But even as we fanned and rubbed, and cried out to 
one another to open the windows and to bring water, the blue 

lips moved to a ghostly whisper: “ Em, listen-” The old 

woman went back to the nickname of their common youth. 
“ Em—your Ev’leen Ann—tried to drown herself—in the Mill 

Brook last night . . . That’s what decided me—to-” And 

then we were plunged into another desperate struggle with 
Death for the possession of the battered old habitation of the 
dauntless soul before us. 

“ Isn’t there any hot water in the house? ” cried Paul, and 
“ Yes, yes; a tea-kettle on the stove! ” answered the woman 
who labored with us. Paul, divining that she meant the kitchen* 
fled down-stairs. I stole a look at Emma Hulett’s face as 
she bent over the sister she had not seen in thirty years, and I 
knew that Mrs. Purdon’s battle was won. It even seemed that 





FLINT AND FIRE 


207 


she had won another skirmish in her never-ending war with 
death, for a little warmth began to come back into her hands. 

When Paul returned with the tea-kettle, and a hot-water 
bottle had been filled, the owner of the house straightened her¬ 
self, assumed her rightful position as mistress of the situation, 
and began to issue commands. “ You git right in the automo¬ 
bile, and go git the doctor,” she told Paul. “ That’ll be the 
quickest. She’s better now, and your wife and I can keep her 
goin’ till the doctor gits here.” 

As Paul left the room she snatched something white from 
a bureau-drawer, stripped the worn, patched old cotton night¬ 
gown from the skeleton-like body, and, handling the invalid 
with a strong, sure touch, slipped on a soft, woolly outing-flan¬ 
nel wrapper with a curious trimming of zigzag braid down the 
front. Mrs. Purdon opened her eyes very slightly, but shut 
them again at her sister’s quick command, “ You lay still, 
Em’line, and drink some of this brandy.” She obeyed without 
comment, but after a pause she opened her eyes again and 
looked down at the new garment which clad her. She had 
that moment turned back from the door of death, but her 
first breath was used to set the scene for a return to. a decent 
decorum. 

“ You’re still a great hand for rick-rack work, Em, I see,” 
she murmured in a faint whisper. “ Do you remember how 
surprised Aunt Su was when you made up a pattern? ” 

“ Well, I hadn’t thought of it for. quite some time,” re¬ 
turned Miss Hulett, in exactly the same tone of everyday 
remark. As she spoke she slipped her arm under the other’s 
head and poked the pillow to a more comfortable shape. “ Now 
you lay perfectly still,” she commanded in the hectoring tone 
of the born nurse; “ I’m goin’ to run down and make you up 
a good hot cup of sassafras tea.” 

I followed her down into the kitchen and was met by the 
same refusal to be melodramatic which I had encountered in 
Ev’leen Ann. I was most anxious to know what version of my 


208 


AMERICANS ALL 


extraordinary morning I was to give out to the world, but hung 
silent, positively abashed by the cool casualness of the other 
woman as she mixed her brew. Finally, “ Shall I tell ’Niram— 

What shall I say to Ev’leen Ann? If anybody asks me-” 

I brought out with clumsy hesitation. 

At the realization that her reserve and family pride were 
wholly at the mercy of any report I might choose to give, even 
my iron hostess faltered. She stopped short in the middle of 
the floor, looked at me silently, piteously, and found no word. 

I hastened to assure her that I would attempt no hateful 
picturesquness of narration. “ Suppose I just say that you 
were rather lonely here, now that Ev’leen Ann has left you, 
and that you thought it would be nice to have your sister come 
to stay with you, so that ’Niram and Ev’leen Ann can be 
married? ” 

Emma Hulett breathed again. She walked toward the stairs 
with the steaming cup in her hand. Over her shoulder she 
remarked, “Well, yes, ma’am; that would be as good a way 
to put it as any, I guess.” 

’Niram and Ev’leen Ann were standing up to be married. 
They looked very stiff and self-conscious, and Ev’leen Ann was 
very pale. ’Niram’s big hands, bent in the crook of a man 
who handles tools, hung down by his new black trousers. Ev’¬ 
leen Ann’s strong fingers stood out stiffly from one another. 
They looked hard at the minister and repeated after him in low 
and meaningless tones the solemn and touching words of the 
marriage service. Back of them stood the wedding company, in 
freshly washed and ironed white dresses, new straw hats, and 
black suits smelling of camphor. In the background among 
the other elders, stood Paul and Horace and I— my husband 
and I hand in hand; Horace twiddling the black ribbon which 
holds his watch, and looking bored. Through the open win¬ 
dows into the stuffiness of the best room came an echo of the 
deep organ note of midsummer. 



FLINT AND FIRE 


209 


“ Whom God hath joined together-” said the minister, 

and the epitome of humanity which filled the room held its 
breath—the old with a wonder upon their life-scarred faces, 
the young half frightened to feel the stir of the great wings 
soaring so near them. 

Then it was all over. ’Niram and Ev’leen Ann were married, 
and the rest of us were bustling about to serve the hot biscuit 
and coffee and chicken salad, and to dish up the ice-cream. 
Afterward there were no citified refinements of cramming 
rice down the necks of the departing pair or tying placards 
to the carriage in which they went away. Some of the men 
went out to the barn and hitched up for TsTiram, and we all 
went down to the gate to see them drive off. They might have 
been going for one of their Sunday afternoon “ buggy-rides ” 
except for the wet eyes of the foolish women and girls who 
stood waving their hands in answer to the flutter of Ev’leen 
Ann’s handkerchief as the carriage went down the hill. 

We had nothing to say to one another after they left, and 
began soberly to disperse to our respective vehicles. But as I 
was getting into our car a new thought suddenly struck me. 

“Why,” I cried, “I never thought of it before! However 
in the world did old Mrs. Purdon know about Ev’leen Ann— 
that night? ” 

Horace was pulling at the door, which was badly adjusted 
and shut hard. He closed it with a vicious slam “ / told her,” 
he said crossly. 



(Reprinted from Americans All ) 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 
AND GREW 

BY 

Dorothy Canfield 

I feel very dubious about the wisdom or usefulness of pub¬ 
lishing the following statement of how one of my stories came 
into existence. This is not on account of the obvious danger of 
seeming to have illusions about the value of my work, as 
though I imagined one of my stories was inherently worth in 
itself a careful public analysis of its growth; the chance, remote 
as it might be, of usefulness to students, would outweigh this 
personal consideration. What is more important is the dan¬ 
ger that some student may take the explanation as a recipe 
or rule for the construction of other stories, and I totally dis¬ 
believe in such rules or recipes. 

As a rule, when a story is finished, and certainly always by 
the time it is published, I have no recollection of the various 
phases of its development. In the case of “ Flint and Fire ”, 
an old friend chanced to ask me, shortly after the tale was 
completed, to write out for his English classes, the stages of 
the construction of a short story. I set them down, hastily, 
formlessly, but just as they happened, and this gives me a 
record which I could not reproduce for any other story I ever 
wrote. These notes are here published on the chance that such 
a truthful record of the growth of one short story, may have 
some general suggestiveness for students. 

No two of my stories are ever constructed in the same way, 
but broadly viewed they all have exactly the same genesis, 
and I confess I cannot conceive of any creative fiction written 


210 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 


2 I I 


from any other beginning . . . that of a generally intensified 
emotional sensibility, such as every human being experiences 
with more or less frequency. Everybody knows such occasional 
hours or days of freshened emotional responses when events 
that usually pass almost unnoticed, suddenly move you deeply, 
when a sunset lifts you to exaltation, when a squeaking door 
throws you into a fit of exasperation, when a clear look of 
trust in a child’s eyes moves you to tears, or an injustice re¬ 
ported in the newspapers to flaming indignation, a good action 
to a sunny warm love of human nature, a discovered meanness 
in yourself or another, to despair. 

I have no idea whence this tide comes, or where it goes, 
but when it begins to rise in my heart, I know that a 
story is hovering in the offing. It does not always come safely 
to port. The daily routine of ordinary life kills off many a 
vagrant emotion. Or if daily humdrum occupation does not 
stifle it, perhaps this saturated solution of feeling does not 
happen to crystallize about any concrete fact, episode, word or 
phrase. In my own case, it is far more likely to seize on some 
slight trifle, the shade of expression on somebody’s face, or the 
tone of somebody’s voice, than to accept a more complete, 
ready-made episode. Especially this emotion refuses to crystal¬ 
lize about, or to have anything to do with those narrations of 
our actual life, offered by friends who are sure that such-and- 
such a happening is so strange or interesting that “ it ought to 
go in a story.” 

The beginning of a story is then for me in more than usual 
sensitiveness to emotion. If this encounters the right focus 
(an<3 heaven only knows why it is the “ right ” one) I get 
simultaneously a strong thrill of intense feeling, and an in¬ 
tense desire to pass it on to other people. This emotion may 
be any one of the infinitely varied ones which life affords, 
laughter, sorrow, indignation, gayety, admiration, scorn, pleas¬ 
ure. I recognize it for the “ right ” one when it brings with 
it an irresistible impulse to try to make other people feel it. 


212 


AMERICANS ALL 


And I know that when it comes, the story is begun. At this 
point, the story begins to be more or less under my conscious 
control, and it is here that the work of construction begins. 

“ Flint and Fire ” thus hovered vaguely in a shimmer of gen¬ 
eral emotional tensity, and thus abruptly crystallized itself 
about a chance phrase and the cadence of the voice which 
pronounced it. For several days I had been almost painfully 
alive to the beauty of an especially lovely spring, always so 
lovely after the long winter in the mountains. One evening, 
going on a very prosaic errand to a farm-house of our region, 
I walked along a narrow path through dark pines, beside a 
brook swollen with melting snow, and found the old man I 
came to see, sitting silent and alone before his blackened small 
old house. I did my errand, and then not to offend against our 
country standards of sociability, sat for half an hour beside him. 

The old man had been for some years desperately unhappy 
about a tragic and permanent element in his life. I had known 
this, every one knew it. But that evening, played upon as I 
had been by the stars, the darkness of the pines and the shout¬ 
ing voice of the brook, I suddenly stopped merely knowing it, 
and felt it. It seemed to me that his misery emanated from him 
like a soundless wail of anguish. We talked very little, odds 
and ends of neighborhood gossip, until the old man, shifting his 
position, drew a long breath and said, “ Seems to me I never 
heard the brook sound so loud as it has this spring.” There 
came instantly to my mind the recollection that his grand¬ 
father had drowned himself in that brook, and I sat silent, 
shaken by that thought and by the sound of his voice. I have 
no words to attempt to reproduce his voice, or to try to make 
you feel as I did, hot and cold with the awe of that glimpse into 
a naked human heart. I felt my own heart contract dreadfully 
with helpless sympathy . . . and, I hope this is not as 
ugly as it sounds, I knew at the same instant that I would try 
to get that pang of emotion into a story and make other people 
feel it. 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 


213 

That is all. That particular phase of the construction of the 
story came and went between two heart-beats. 

I came home by the same path through the same pines along 
the same brook, sinfully blind and deaf to the beauty that had 
so moved me an hour ago. I was too busy now to notice any¬ 
thing outside the rapid activity going on inside my head. My 
mind was working with a swiftness and a coolness which I am 
somewhat ashamed to mention, and my emotions were calmed, 
relaxed, let down from the tension of the last few days and the 
last few moments. They had found their way out to an at¬ 
tempt at self-expression and were at rest. I realize that this 
is not at all estimable. The old man was just as unhappy as 
he had been when I had felt my heart breaking with sympathy 
for him, but now he seemed very far away. 

I was snatching up one possibility after another, consider¬ 
ing it for a moment, casting it away and pouncing on another. 
First of all, the story must be made as remote as possible from 
resembling the old man or his trouble, lest he or any one in 
the world might think he was intended, and be wounded. 

What is the opposite pole from an old man’s tragedy? A 
lover’s tragedy, of course. Yes, it must be separated lovers, 
young and passionate and beautiful, because they would fit 
in with the back-ground of spring, and swollen shouting starlit 
brooks, and the yearly resurrection which was so closely con¬ 
nected with that ache of emotion that they were a part of 
it. 

Should the separation come from the weakness or faithless¬ 
ness of one of the lovers? No, ah no, I wanted it without 
ugliness, pure beautiful sorrow, to fit that dark shadow of the 
pines ... the lovers must be separated by outside forces. 

What outside forces? Lack of money? Family opposition? 
Both, perhaps. I knew plenty of cases of both in the life of our 
valley. 

By this time I had come again to our own house and was 
swallowed in the usual thousand home-activities. But under- 


214 


AMERICANS ALL 


neath all that, quite steadily my mind continued to work on 
the story as a wasp in a barn keeps on silently plastering up 
the cells of his nest in the midst of the noisy activities of farm- 
life. I said to one of the children, “ Yes, dear, wasn’t it fun! ” 
and to myself, “ To be typical of our tradition-ridden valley- 
people, the opposition ought to come from the dead hand of 
the past.” I asked a caller, “ One lump or two? ” and thought 
as I poured the tea, “ And if the character of that opposition 
could be made to indicate a fierce capacity for passionate feel¬ 
ing in the older generation, that would make it doubly useful 
in the story, not only as part of the machinery of the plot, 
but as indicating an inheritance of passionate feeling in the 
younger generation, with whom the story is concerned.” I 
dozed off at night, and woke to find myself saying, “ It could 
come from the jealousy of two sisters, now old women.” 

But that meant that under ordinary circumstances the lovers 
would have been first cousins, and this might cause a subcon¬ 
scious wavering of attention on the part of some readers .... 
just as well to get that stone out of the path! I darned a sock 
and thought out the relationship in the story, and was rewarded 
with a revelation of the character of the sick old woman, 
’Niram’s step-mother. 

Upon this, came one of those veering lists of the ballast 
aboard which are so disconcerting to the author. The story 
got out of hand. The old woman silent, indomitable, fed and 
deeply satisfied for all of her hard and grinding life by her love 
for the husband whom she had taken from her sister, she 
stepped to the front of my stage, and from that moment on, 
dominated the action. I did not expect this, nor desire it, and I 
was very much afraid that the result would be a perilously di¬ 
vided interest which would spoil the unity of impression of the 
story. It now occurs to me that this unexpected shifting of 
values may have been the emergence of the element of tragic 
old age which had been the start of the story and which I had 
conscientiously tried to smother out of sight. At any rate, 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 


215 

there she was, more touching, pathetic, striking, to my eyes 
with her life-time proof of the reality of her passion, than my 
untried young lovers who up to that time had seemed to me, 
in the full fatuous flush of invention as I was, as ill-starred, in¬ 
nocent and touching lovers as anybody had ever seen. 

Alarmed about this double interest I went on with the weav¬ 
ing back and forth of the elements of the plot which now in¬ 
volved the attempt to arouse in the reader’s heart as in mine a 
sympathy for the bed-ridden old Mrs. Purdon and a compre¬ 
hension of her sacrifice. 

My daily routine continued as usual, gardening, telling 
stories, music, sewing, dusting, motoring, callers . . . one of 
them, a self-consciously sophisticated Europeanized American, 
not having of course any idea of what was filling my inner 
life, rubbed me frightfully the wrong way by making a slight¬ 
ing condescending allusion to what he called the mean, emo¬ 
tional poverty of our inarticulate mountain people. I flew 
into a silent rage at him, though scorning to discuss with him 
a matter I felt him incapable of understanding, and the charac¬ 
ter of Cousin Horace went into the story. He was for the 
first day or two, a very poor cheap element, quite unreal, un¬ 
realized, a mere man of straw to be knocked over by the per¬ 
sonages of the tale. Then I took myself to task, told myself 
that I was spoiling a story merely to revenge myself on a 
man I cared nothing about, and that I must either take 
Cousin Horace out or make him human. One day, working 
in the garden, I laughed out suddenly, delighted with the whim¬ 
sical idea of making him, almost in spite of himself, the deus 
ex machina of my little drama, quite soft and sympathetic under 
his shell of would-be worldly disillusion, as occasionally hap¬ 
pens to elderly bachelors. 

At this point the character of ’Niram’s long-dead father 
came to life and tried to push his way into the story, a delight¬ 
ful, gentle, upright man, with charm and a sense of humor, 
such as none of the rest of my stark characters possessed. I 


2l6 


AMERICANS ALL 


felt that he was necessary to explain the fierceness of the 
sisters’ rivalry for him. I planned one or two ways to get 
him in, in retrospect—and liked one of the scenes better than 
anything that finally was left in the story. Finally, very heavy- 
hearted, I put him out of the story, for the merely material 
reason that there was no room for him. As usual with my 
story-making, this plot was sprouting out in a dozen places, 
expanding, opening up, till I perceived that I had enough mat¬ 
erial for a novel. For a day or so I hung undecided. Would 
it perhaps be better to make it a novel and really tell about 
those characters all I knew and guessed? But again a con¬ 
sideration that has nothing to do with artistic form, settled the 
matter. I saw no earthly possibility of getting time enough to 
write a novel. So I left Mr. Purdon out, and began to think 
of ways to compress my material, to make one detail do double 
work so that space might be saved. 

One detail of the mechanism remained to be arranged, and 
this ended by deciding the whole form of the story, and the 
first-person character of the recital. This was the question 
of just how it would have been materially possible for the 
bed-ridden old woman to break down the life-long barrier be¬ 
tween her and her sister, and how she could have reached her 
effectively and forced her hand. I could see no way to manage 
this except by somehow transporting her bodily to the sister’s 
house, so that she could not be put out on the road without 
public scandal. This transportation must be managed by some 
character not in the main action, as none of the persons in¬ 
volved would have been willing to help her to this. It looked 
like putting in another character, just for that purpose, and of 
course he could not be put in without taking the time to make 
him plausible, human, understandable . . . and I had just 
left out that charming widower for sheer lack of space. Well, 
why not make it a first person story, and have the narrator 
be the one who takes Mrs. Purdon to her sister’s? The nar¬ 
rator of the story never needs to be explained, always seems 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 


217 

sufficiently living and real by virtue of the supremely human 
act of so often saying “ I 

Now the materials were ready, the characters fully alive in my 
mind and entirely visualized, even to the smoothly braided hair 
of Ev’leen Ann, the patch-work quilt of the old woman out- 
of-doors, and the rustic wedding at the end, all details which 
had recently chanced to draw my attention; I heard every¬ 
thing through the song of the swollen brook, one of the main 
characters in the story, (although by this time in actual fact, 
June and lower water had come and the brook slid quiet and 
gleaming, between placid green banks) and I often found myself 
smiling foolishly in pleasure over the buggy going down the 
hill, freighted so richly with hearty human joy. 

The story was now ready to write. 

I drew a long breath of mingled anticipation and appre¬ 
hension, somewhat as you do when you stand, breathing quickly, 
balanced on your skis, at the top of a long white slope you 
are not sure you are clever enough to manage. Sitting down 
at my desk one morning, I “ pushed off ” and with a tingle 
of not altogether pleasurable exciement and alarm, felt my¬ 
self “ going.” I “ went ” almost as precipitately as skis go 
down a long white slope, scribbling as rapidly as my pencil 
could go, indicating whole words with a dash and a jiggle, 
filling page after page with scrawls ... it seemed to me that 
I had been at work perhaps half an hour, when someone was 
calling me impatiently to lunch. I had been writing four hours 
without stopping. My cheeks were flaming, my feet were cold, 
my lips parched. It was high time someone called me to 
lunch. 

The next morning, back at the desk, I looked over what I had 
written, conquered the usual sick qualms of discouragement at 
finding it so infinitely flat and insipid compared to what I had 
wished to make it, and with a very clear idea of what remained 
to be done, plodded ahead doggedly, and finished the first 
draught before noon. It was almost twice too long. 


2 l8 


AMERICANS ALL 


After this came a period of steady desk work, every morning, 
of re-writing, compression, more compression, and the more or 
less mechanical work of technical revision, what a member of 
my family calls “ cutting out the ‘whiches’ ”. The first thing 
to do each morning was to read a part of it over aloud, sen¬ 
tence by sentence, to try to catch clumsy, ungraceful phrases, 
overweights at one end or the other, “ ringing ” them as you 
ring a dubious coin, clipping off too-trailing relative clauses, 
“ listening ” hard. This work depends on what is known in 
music as “ ear ”, and in my case it cannot be kept up long at 
a time, because I find my attention flagging. When I begin 
to suspect that my ear is dulling, I turn to other varieties of 
revision, of which there are plenty to keep anybody busy; for 
instance revision to explain facts; in this category is the sen¬ 
tence just after the narrator suspects Ev’leen Ann has gone 
down to the brook, “ my ears ringing with all the frightening 
tales of the morbid vein of violence which runs through the 
characters of our reticent people.” It seemed too on re-reading 
the story for the tenth or eleventh time, that for readers who 
do not know our valley people, the girl’s attempt at suicide 
might seem improbable. Some reference ought to be brought 
in, giving the facts that their sorrow and despair is terrible in 
proportion to the nervous strain of their tradition of repression, 
and that suicide is by no means unknown. I tried bringing 
that fact in, as part of the conversation with Cousin Horace, 
but it never fused with the rest there, “ stayed on top of the 
page ” as bad sentences will do, never sank in, and always made 
the disagreeable impression on me that a false intonation in an 
actor’s voice does. So it came out from there. I tried putting 
it in Ev’leen Ann’s mouth, in a carefully arranged form, but it 
was so shockingly out of character there, that it was snatched 
out at once. There I hung over the manuscript with that nec¬ 
essary fact in my hand and no place to lay it down. Finally 
I perceived a possible opening for it, where it now is in the 


HOW “ FLINT AND FIRE ” STARTED 


219 


story, and squeezing it in there discontentedly left it, for I 
still think it only inoffensively and not well placed. 

Then there is the traditional, obvious revision for sugges¬ 
tiveness, such as the recurrent mention of the mountain brook 
at the beginning of each of the first scenes; revision for ordi¬ 
nary sense, in the first draught I had honeysuckle among the 
scents on the darkened porch, whereas honeysuckle does not 
bloom in Vermont till late June; revision for movement to get 
the narrator rapidly from her bed to the brook; for sound, sense 
proportion, even grammar . . . and always interwoven with 
these mechanical revisions recurrent intense visualizations of 
the scenes. This is the mental trick which can be learned, I 
think, by practice and effort. Personally, although I never 
used as material any events in my own intimate life, I can write 
nothing if I cannot achieve these very definite, very complete 
visualizations of the scenes; which means that I can write noth¬ 
ing at all about places, people or phases of life which I do not 
intimately know, down to the last detail. If my life depended 
on it, it does not seem to me I could possibly write a story 
about Siberian hunters or East-side factory hands without hav¬ 
ing lived long among them. Now the story was what one 
calls “ finished,” and I made a clear copy, picking my way with 
difficulty among the alterations, the scratched-out passages, 
and the cued-in paragraphs, the inserted pages, the re-arranged 
phrases. As I typed, the interest and pleasure in the story 
lasted just through that process. It still seemed pretty good 
to me, the wedding still touched me, the whimsical ending still 
amused me. 

But on taking up the legible typed copy and beginning to 
glance rapidly over it, I felt fall over me the black shadow 
of that intolerable reaction which is enough to make any author 
abjure his calling for ever. By the time I had reached the end, 
the full misery was there, the heart-sick, helpless consciousness 
of failure. What! I had had the presumption to try to trans- 


220 


AMERICANS ALL 


late into words, and make others feel a thrill of sacred living 
human feeling, that should not be touched save by worthy 
hands. And what had I produced? A trivial, paltry, com¬ 
plicated tale, with certain cheaply ingenious devices in it. I 
heard again the incommunicable note of profound emotion in 
the old man’s voice, suffered again with his sufferings; and 
those little black marks on white paper lay dead, dead in my 
hands. What horrible people second-rate authors were! They 
ought to be prohibited by law from sending out their carica¬ 
tures of life. I would never write again. All that effort, 
enough to have achieved a master-piece it seemed at the 
time . . . and this, this, for result! 

From the subconscious depths of long experience came up 
the cynical, slightly contemptuous consolation, “ You know this 
never lasts. You always throw this same fit, and get over it.” 

So, suffering from really acute humiliation and unhappiness, 
I went out hastily to weed a flower-bed. 

And sure enough, the next morning, after a long night’s 
sleep, I felt quite rested, calm, and blessedly matter-of-fact. 
“ Flint and Fire ” seemed already very far away and vague, 
and the question of whether it was good or bad, not very im¬ 
portant or interesting, like the chart of your temperature in 
a fever now gone by. 


DOROTHY CANFIELD 


Dorothy Canfield grew up in an atmosphere of books and 
learning. Her father, James H. Canfield, was president of 
Kansas University, at Lawrence, and there Dorothy was born, 
Feb. 17, 1879. She attended the high school at Lawrence, and 
became friends with a young army officer who was teaching 
at the near-by Army post, and who taught her to ride horse¬ 
back. In 1917 when the first American troops entered Paris, 
Dorothy Canfield, who had gone to Paris to help in war work, 
again met this army officer, General John J. Pershing. 

But this is getting ahead of the story. Dr. Canfield was 
called from Kansas to become president of Ohio State Uni¬ 
versity, and later to be librarian at Columbia University, and 
so it happened that Dorothy took her college course at Ohio 
State and her graduate work at Columbia. She specialized in 
Romance languages, and took her degree as Doctor of Phil¬ 
osophy in 1904. In connection with Professor Carpenter of 
Columbia she wrote a text book on rhetoric. But books did 
not absorb quite all of her time, for the next item in her 
biography is her marriage to John R. Fisher, who had been the 
captain of the Columbia football team. They made their home 
at Arlington, Vermont, with frequent visits to Europe. In 
1911-1912 they spent the winter in Rome. Here they came to 
know Madame Montessori, famous for developing a new 
system of training children. Dorothy Canfield spent many 
days at the “ House of Childhood,” studying the methods of 
this gifted teacher. The result of this was a book, A Montes¬ 
sori Mother, in which the system was adapted to the needs of 
American children. 

The Squirrel Cage, published in 1912, was a study of an un- 


221 


222 


AMERICANS ALL 


happy marriage. The book was favorably received by the 
critics, but found only a moderately wide public. A second 
novel, The Bent Twig, had college life as its setting; the chief 
character was the daughter of a professor in a Middle Western 
university. Meantime she had been publishing in magazines a 
number of short stories dealing with various types of New Eng¬ 
land country people, and in 1916 these were gathered into a 
volume with the title Hillsboro People. This book met with a 
wide acceptance, not only in this country but in France, where, 
like her other books, it was quickly translated and published. 
“ Flint and Fire ” is taken from this book. The Real Motive, 
another book of short stories, and Understood Betsy , a book for 
younger readers, were her next publications. 

Meantime the Great War had come, and its summons was 
heard in their quiet mountain home. Mr. Fisher went to 
France with the Ambulance Corps; his wife as a war-relief 
worker. A letter from a friend thus described her work: 

She has gone on doing a prodigious amount of work. First 
running, almost entirely alone, the work for soldiers blinded in 
battle, editing a magazine for them, running the presses, often with 
her own hands, getting books written for them; all the time looking 
out for refugees and personal cases that came under her attention: 
caring for children from the evacuated portions of France, organ¬ 
izing work for them, and establishing a Red Cross hospital for 
them. 


Out of the fullness of these experiences she wrote her next 
book, Home Fires in France, which at once took rank as one 
of the most notable pieces of literature inspired by the war. It 
is in the form of short stories, but only the form is fiction: it 
is a perfectly truthful portrayal of the French women and of 
some Americans who, far back of the trenches, kept up the life 
of a nation when all its people were gone. It reveals the soul 
of the French people. The Day of Glory, her latest book, is 
a series of further impressions of the war in France. 


DOROTHY CANFIELD 


223 


It is not often that an author takes us into his workshop 
and lets us see just how his stories are written. The preceding 
account of Dorothy Canfield’s literary methods was written 
especially for this book. 




DUSKY AMERICANS 


Most stories of Negro life fall into one of two groups. 
There is the story of the Civil War period, which pictures 
the “ darky ” on the old plantation, devoted to “ young Massa ” 
or “ old Miss,”—the Negro of slavery. Then there are stories 
of recent times in which the Negro is used purely for comic 
effect, a sort of mhistr el-show character. Neither of these is 
the Negro of to-day. A truer picture is found in the stories 
of Paul Laurence Dunbar. The following story is from his 
Folks From Dixie. 




THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


BY 

Paul Laurence Dunbar 

“ And this is Mt. Hope,” said the Rev. Howard Dokesbury to 
himself as he descended, bag in hand, from the smoky, dingy 
coach, or part of a coach, which was assigned to his people, and 
stepped upon the rotten planks of the station platform. The 
car he had just left was not a palace, nor had his reception by 
his fellow-passengers or his intercourse with them been of such 
cordial nature as to endear them to him. But he watched 
the choky little engine with its three black cars wind out of 
sight with a look as regretful as if he were witnessing the de¬ 
parture of his dearest friend. Then he turned his attention 
again to his surroundings, and a sigh welled up from his 
heart. “ And this is Mt. Hope,” he repeated. A note in his 
voice indicated that he fully appreciated the spirit of keen 
irony in which the place had been named. 

The color scheme of the picture that met his eyes was in 
dingy blacks and grays. The building that held the ticket, 
telegraph, and train despatched offices was a miserably old 
ramshackle affair, standing well in the foreground of this scene 
of gloom and desolation. Its windows were so coated with 
smoke and grime that they seemed to have been painted over 
in order to secure secrecy within. Here and there a lazy cur 
lay drowsily snapping at the flies, and at the end of the sta¬ 
tion, perched on boxes or leaning against the wall, making a 
living picture of equal laziness, stood a group of idle Negroes 
exchanging rude badinage with their white counterparts across 
the street. 

After a while this bantering interchange would grow more 


227 


228 


AMERICANS ALL 


keen and personal, a free-for-all friendly fight would follow, and 
the newspaper correspondent in that section would write it up 
as a “ race war.” But this had not happened yet that day. 

“ This is Mt. Hope,” repeated the new-comer; “ this is the 
field of my labors.” 

Rev. Howard Dokesbury, as may already have been inferred, 
was a Negro,—there could be no mistake about that. The 
deep dark brown of his skin, the rich over-fullness of his lips, 
and the close curl of his short black hair were evidences that 
admitted of no argument. He was a finely proportioned, stal¬ 
wart-looking man, with a general air of self-possession and 
self-sufficiency in his manner. There was firmness in the set 
of his lips. A reader of character would have said of him, 
“ Here is a man of solid judgement, careful in deliberation, 
prompt in execution, and decisive.” 

It was the perception in him of these very qualities which 
had prompted the authorities of the little college where he had 
taken his degree and received his theological training, to urge 
him to go among his people at the South, and there to exert 
his powers for good where the field was broad and the laborers 
few. 

Born of Southern parents from whom he had learned many 
of the superstitions and traditions of the South, Howard Dokes¬ 
bury himself had never before been below Mason and Dixon’s 
line. But with a confidence born of youth and a consciousness 
of personal power, he had started South with the idea that he 
knew the people with whom he had to deal, and was equipped 
with the proper weapons to cope with their shortcomings. 

But as he looked around upon the scene which now met his 
eye, a doubt arose in his mind. He picked up his bag with a 
sigh, and approached a man who had been standing apart from 
the rest of the loungers and regarding him with indolent in¬ 
tentness. 

“ Could you direct me to the house of Stephen Gray? ” 
asked the minister. 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


229 


The interrogated took time to change his position from left 
foot to right and shift his quid, before he drawled forth, “ I 
reckon you’s de new Mefdis preachah, huh? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Howard, in the most conciliatory tone he 
could command, “ and I hope I find in you one of my flock.” 

“ No, suh, I’s a Babtist myse’f. I wa’n’t raised up no 
place erroun’ Mt. Hope; I’m nachelly f’om way up in Adams 
County. Dey jes’ sont me down hyeah to fin’ you an’ tek you 
up to Steve’s. Steve, he’s workin’ to-day an’ couldn’t come 
down.” 

He laid particular stress upon the “ to-day,” as if Steve’s 
spell of activity were not an every-day occurrence. 

“ Is it far from here? ” asked Dokesbury. 

“ ’T ain’t mo’ ’n a mile an’ a ha’f by de shawt cut.” 

“ Well, then, let’s take the short cut, by all means,” said the 
preacher. 

They trudged along for a while in silence, and then the 
young man asked, “ What do you men about here do mostly 
for a living? ” 

“ Oh, well, we does odd jobs, we saws an’ splits wood an’ 
totes bundles, an’ some of ’em raises gyahden, but mos’ of us, 
we fishes. De fish bites an’ we ketches ’em. Sometimes we 
eats ’em an’ sometimes we sells ’em; a string 0’ fish’ll bring 
a peck o’ co’n any time.” 

“ And is that all you do? ” 

“ ’Bout.” 

“Why, I don’t see how you live that way.” 

“ Oh, we lives all right,” answered the man; “ we has plenty 
to eat an’ drink, an’ clothes to wear, an’ some place to stay. 
I reckon folks ain’t got much use fu’ nuffin’ mo’.” 

Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his minis¬ 
terial labors. His spirits were not materially raised when, 
some time later, he came in sight of the house which was to be 
his abode. To be sure, it was better than most of the houses 
which he had seen in the Negro part of Mt. Hope; but even 


230 


AMERICANS ALL 


at that it was far from being good or comfortable-looking. 
It was small and mean in appearance. The weather boarding 
was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showing the 
great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained 
the whitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots. 

The minister’s guide went up to the closed door, and rapped 
loudly with a heavy stick. 

“ G’ ’way f’om dah, an’ quit you’ foolin’,” came in a large 
voice from within. 

The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound 
of shuffling feet and the pushing back of a chair, and then the 
same voice asking: “ I bet I’ll mek you git away f’om dat do’.” 

“ Dat’s A’nt Canine,” the guide said, and laughed. 

The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and 
sagging bottom would allow, and a large body surmounted by 
a face like a big round full moon presented itself in the open¬ 
ing. A broomstick showed itself aggressively in one fat shiny 
hand. 

“ It’s you, Tom Scott, is it—you trif’nin’-” and then, 

catching sight of the stranger, her whole manner changed, and 
she dropped the broomstick with an embarrassed “ ’Scuse me, 
suh.” 

Tom chuckled all over as he said, “ A’nt Ca’line, dis is yo’ 
new preachah.” 

The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old 
woman extended her hand and enveloped that of the young 
minister’s. 

“ Come in,” she said. “ I’s mighty glad to see you—that 
no-’count Tom come put’ nigh mekin’ me ’spose myse’f.” Then 
turning to Tom, she exclaimed with good-natured severity, 
“ An’ you go long, you scounll you! ” 

The preacher entered the cabin—it was hardly more—and 
seated himself in the rush-bottomed chair which “ A’nt 
Ca’line ” had been industriously polishing with her apron. 

“ An’ now, Brothah-” 




231 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 

“ Dokesbury,” supplemented the young man. 

“ Brothah Dokesbury, I jes’ want you to mek yo’se’f at home 
right erway. I know you ain’t use to ouah ways down hyeah; 
but you jes’ got to set in an’ git ust to ’em. You mus’n’ feel 
bad ef things don’t go yo’ way f’om de ve’y fust. Have you got 
a mammy? ” 

The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped 
up in Dokesbury’s throat and pushed the water into his eyes. 
He did have a mother away back there at home. She was all 
alone, and he was her heart and the hope of her life. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I’ve got a little mother up there in Ohio.” 

“Well, I’s gwine to be yo’ mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef 
I ain’t too rough an’ common fu’ you.” 

“ Hush! ” exclaimed the preacher, and he got up and took 
the old lady’s hand in both of his own. “ You shall be my 
mother down here; you shall help me, as you have done to¬ 
day. I feel better already.” 

“ I knowed you would,” and the old face beamed on the 
young one. “ An’ now jes’ go out de do’ dah an’ wash yo’ 
face. Dey’s a pan an’ soap an’ watah right dah, an’ hyeah’s a 
towel; den you kin go right into yo’ room, fu’ I knows you 
want to be erlone fu’ a while. I’ll fix yo’ suppah while you 
rests.” 

He did as he was bidden. On a rough bench outside the 
door, he found a basin and a bucket of water with a tin dipper 
in it. To one side, in a broken saucer, lay a piece of coarse 
soap. The facilities for copious ablutions were not abundant, 
but one thing the minister noted with pleasure: the towel, 
which was rough and hurt his skin, was, nevertheless, scrupu¬ 
lously clean. He went to his room feeling fresher and better, 
and although he found the place little and dark and warm, 
it too was clean, and a sense of its homeness began to take 
possession of him. 

The room was off the main living-room into which he had 
been first ushered. It had one small window that opened out 


232 


AMERICANS ALL 


on a fairly neat yard. A table with a chair before it stood 
beside the window, and across the room—if the three feet 
of space which intervened could be called “ across ”—stood the 
little bed with its dark calico quilt and white pillows. There 
was no carpet on the floor, and the absence of a washstand 
indicated very plainly that the occupant was expected to wash 
outside. The young minister knelt for a few minutes beside 
the bed, and then rising cast himself into the chair to rest. 

It was possibly half an hour later when his partial nap was 
broken in upon by the sound of a gruff voice from without 
saying, “ He’s hyeah, is he—oomph! Well, what’s he ac’ lak? 
Want us to git down on ouah knees an’ crawl to him? If 
he do, I reckon he’ll fin’ dat Mt. Hope ain’t de place fo’ 
him.” 

The minister did not hear the answer, which was in a low 
voice and came, he conjectured, from Aunt “ Ca’line but the 
gruff voice subsided, and there was the sound of footsteps going 
out of the room. A tap came on the preacher’s door, and he 
opened it to the old woman. She smiled reassuringly. 

“ Dat’ uz my ol’ man,” she said. “ I sont him out to git 
some wood, so’s I’d have time to post you. Don’t you mind 
him; he’s lots mo’ ba’k dan bite. He’s one o’ dese little yaller 
men, an’ you know dey kin be powahful contra’y when dey 
sets dey hai’d to it. But jes’ you treat him nice an’ don’t 
let on, an’ I’ll be boun’ you’ll bring him erroun’ in little er no 
time.” 

The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some 
misgiving. Albeit he had assumed his pleasantest manner when, 
after his return to the living-room, the little “ yaller ” man 
came through the door with his bundle of wood. 

He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline’s, “ Dis is my hus¬ 
band, Brothah Dokesbury,” and heartily shook his host’s re¬ 
luctant hand. 

“ I hope I find you well, Brother Gray,” he said. 

“ Moder’t, jes’ moder’t,” was the answer. 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


233 


“ Come to suppah now, bofe o’ you,’” said the old lady, 
and they all sat down to the evening meal of crisp bacon, 
well-fried potatoes, egg-pone, and coffee. 

The young man did his best to be agreeable, but it was 
rather discouraging to receive only gruff monosyllabic rejoinders 
to his most interesting observations. But the cheery old wife 
came bravely to the rescue, and the minister was continually 
floated into safety on the flow of her conversation. Now and 
then, as he talked, he could catch a stealthy upflashing of 
Stephen Gray’s eye, as suddenly lowered again, that told him 
that the old man was listening. But as an indication that 
they would get on together, the supper, taken as a whole, was 
not a success. The evening that followed proved hardly more 
fortunate. About the only remarks that could be elicited 
from the “ little yaller man ” were a reluctant “ oomph ” or 
“ oomph-uh.” 

It was just before going to bed that, after a period of reflec¬ 
tion, Aunt Caroline began slowly: “ We got a son ”—her hus¬ 
band immediately bristled up and his eyes flashed, but the 
old woman went on; “ he named ’Lias, an’ we thinks a heap 0’ 
’Lias, we does; but—” the old man had subsided, but he 
bristled up again at the word—“ he ain’t jes’ whut we want him 
to be.” Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak in de¬ 
fense of his son, but was silent in satisfaction at his wife’s 
explanation: “’Lias ain’t bad; he jes’ ca’less. Sometimes he 
stays at home, but right sma’t 0’ de time he stays down at ”— 
she looked at her husband and hesitated—“ at de colo’ed 
s’loon. We don’t lak dat. It ain’t no fitten place fu’ him. 
But ’Lias ain’t bad, he jes’ ca’less, an’ me an’ de ol’ man we 
’membahs him in ouah pra’ahs, an’ I jes’ t’ought I’d ax you 
to ’membah him too, Brothah Dokesbury.” 

The minister felt the old woman’s pleading look and the 
husband’s intense gaze upon his face, and suddenly there came 
to him an intimate sympathy in their trouble and with it an 
unexpected strength. 


234 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ There is no better time than now,” he said, “ to take his 
case to the Almighty Power; let us pray.” 

Perhaps it was the same prayer he had prayed many times 
before; perhaps the words of supplication and the plea for 
light and guidance were the same; but somehow to the young 
man kneeling there amid those humble surroundings, with the 
sorrow of these poor ignorant people weighing upon his heart, 
it seemed very different. It came more fervently from his 
lips, and the words had a deeper meaning. When he arose, 
there was a warmth at his heart just the like of which he had 
never before experienced. 

Aunt Caroline blundered up from her knees, saying, as she 
wiped her eyes, “ Blessed is dey dat mou’n, fu’ dey shall be 
comfo’ted.” The old man, as he turned to go to bed, shook 
the young man’s hand warmly and in silence; but there was 
a moisture in the old eyes that told the minister that his 
plummet of prayer had sounded the depths. 

Alone in his own room Howard Dokesbury sat down to 
study the situation in which he had been placed. Had his 
thorough college training anticipated specifically any such cir¬ 
cumstance as this? After all, did he know his own people? 
Was it possible that they could be so different from what 
he had seen and known? He had always been such a loyal 
Negro, so proud of his honest brown; but had he been mis¬ 
taken? Was he, after all, different from the majority of the 
people with whom he was supposed to have all thoughts, feel¬ 
ings, and emotions in common? 

These and other questions he asked himself without being 
able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. He did not go 
to sleep soon after retiring, and the night brought many 
thoughts. The next day would be Saturday. The ordeal had 
already begun,—now there were twenty-four hours between him 
and the supreme trial. What would be its outcome? There 
were moments when he felt, as every man, howsoever brave, 
must feel at times, that he would like to shift all his respon- 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


235 


sibilities and go away from the place that seemed destined to 
tax his powers beyond their capability of endurance. What 
could he do for the inhabitants of Mt. Hope? What was 
required of him to do? Ever through his mind ran that world- 
old question: “ Am I my brother’s keeper? ” He had never 
asked, “ Are these people my brothers? ” 

He was up early the next morning, and as soon as breakfast 
was done, he sat down to add a few touches to the sermon he 
had prepared as his introduction. It was not the first time 
that he had retouched it and polished it up here and there. 
Indeed, he had taken some pride in it. But as he read it 
over that day, it did not sound to him as it had sounded 
before. It appeared flat and without substance. After a while 
he laid it aside, telling himself that he was nervous and it was 
on this account that he could not see matters as he did in his 
calmer moments. He told himself, too, that he must not again 
take up the offending discourse until time to use it, lest the 
discovery of more imaginary flaws should so weaken his 
confidence that he would not be able to deliver it with 
effect. 

In order better to keep his resolve, he put on his hat and 
went out for a walk through the streets of Mt. Hope. He did 
not find an encouraging prospect as he went along. The 
Negroes whom he met viewed him with ill-favor, and the whites 
who passed looked on him with unconcealed distrust and con¬ 
tempt. He began to feel lost, alone, and helpless. The squalor 
and shiftlessness which were plainly in evidence about the 
houses which he saw filled him with disgust and a dreary hope¬ 
lessness. 

He passed vacant lots which lay open and inviting children 
to healthful play; but instead of marbles or leap-frog or ball, 
he found little boys in ragged knickerbockers huddled together 
on the ground, “ shooting craps ” with precocious avidity and 
quarreling over the pennies that made the pitiful wagers. He 
heard glib profanity rolling from the lips of children who 


AMERICANS ALL 


236 

should have been stumbling through baby catechisms; and 
his heart ached for them. 

He would have turned and gone back to his room, but the 
sound of shouts, laughter, and the tum-tum of a musical instru¬ 
ment drew him on down the street. At the turn of a corner, 
the place from which the noise emanated met his eyes. It 
was a rude frame building, low and unpainted. The panes in 
its windows whose places had not been supplied by sheets of 
tin were daubed a dingy red. Numerous kegs and bottles on 
the outside attested the nature of the place. The front door 
was open, but the interior was concealed by a gaudy curtain 
stretched across the entrance within. Over the door was the 
inscription, in straggling characters, “ Sander’s Place; ” and 
when he saw half-a-dozen Negroes enter, the minister knew 
instantly that he now beheld the colored saloon which was the 
frequenting-place of his hostess’s son ’Lias; and he wondered, 
if, as the mother said, her boy was not bad, how anything 
good could be preserved in such a place of evil. 

The cries of boisterous laughter mingled with the strum¬ 
ming of the banjo and the shuffling of feet told him that they 
were engaged in one of their rude hoe-down dances. He had 
not passed a dozen paces beyond the door when the music 
was suddenly stopped, the sound of a quick blow followed, 
then ensued a scuffle, and a young fellow half ran, half fell 
through the open door. He was closely followed by a heavily 
built ruffian who was striking him as he ran. The young fellow 
was very much the weaker and slighter of the two, and was 
suffering great punishment. In an instant all the preacher’s 
sense of justice was stung into sudden life. Just as the brute 
was about to give his victim a blow that would have sent 
him into the gutter, he felt his arm grasped in a detaining hold 
and heard a commanding voice,—“ Stop! ” 

He turned with increased fury upon this meddler, but his 
other wrist was caught and held in a vise-like grip. For a 
moment the two men looked into each other’s eyes. Hot words 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


237 


rose to the young man’s lips, but he choked them back. Until 
this moment he had deplored the possession of a spirit so easily 
fired that it had been a test of his manhood to keep from 
“slugging” on the football field; now he was glad of it. 
He did not attempt to strike the man, but stood holding his 
arms and meeting the brute glare with manly flashing eyes. 
Either the natural cowardice of the bully or something in his 
new opponent’s face had quelled the big fellow’s spirit, and 
he said doggedly, “ Lemme go. I wasn’t a-go’n to kill him no¬ 
how, but ef I ketch him dancin’ with my gal any mo’, I-” 

He cast a glance full of malice at his victim, who stood on the 
pavement a few feet away, as much amazed as the dum- 
founded crowd which thronged the door of “ Sander’s Place.” 
Loosing his hold, the preacher turned, and, putting his hand 
on the young fellow’s shoulder, led him away. 

For a time they walked on in silence. Dokesbury had to 
calm the tempest in his breast before he could trust his voice. 
After a while he said: “ That fellow was making it pretty hot 
for you, my young friend. What had you done to him? ” 

“ Nothin’,” replied the other. “ I was jes’ dancin’ ’long an’ 
not thinkin’ ’bout him, when all of a sudden he hollered dat I 
had his gal an’ commenced hittin’ me.” 

“ He’s a bully and a coward, or he would not have made 
use of his superior strength in that way. What’s your name, 
friend? ” 

“ ’Lias Gray,” was the answer, which startled the minister 
into exclaiming,— 

“What! are you Aunt Caroline’s son? ” 

“Yes, suh, I sho is; does you know my mothah? ” 

“Why, I’m stopping with her, and we were talking about 
you last night. My name is Dokesbury, and I am to take 
charge of the church here.” 

“I thought mebbe you was a preachah, but I couldn’t 
scarcely believe it after I seen de way you held 'Sam an’ looked 
at him.” 



AMERICANS ALL 


238 

Dokesbury laughed, and his merriment seemed to make his 
companion feel better, for the sullen, abashed look left his 
face, and he laughed a little himself as he said: “I wasn’t 
a-pesterin’ Sam, but I tell you he pestered me mighty.” 

Dokesbury looked into the boy’s face,—he was hardly more 
than a boy,—lit up as it was by a smile, and concluded that 
Aunt Caroline was right. ’Lias might be “ ca’less,” but he 
wasn’t a bad boy. The face was too open and the eyes too 
honest for that. ’Lias wasn’t bad; but environment does so 
much, and he would be if something were not done for him. 
Here, then, was work for a pastor’s hands. 

“ You’ll walk on home with me, ’Lias, won’t you? ” 

“ I reckon I mout ez well,” replied the boy. “ I don’t stay 
erroun’ home ez much ez I oughter.” 

“ You’ll be around more, of course, now that I am there. 
It will be so much less lonesome for two young people than 
for one. Then, you can be a great help to me, too.” 

The preacher did not look down to see how wide his listener’s 
eyes grew as he answered: “ Oh, I ain’t fittin’ to be no he’p 
to you, suh. Fust thing, I ain’t nevah got religion, an’ then 
I ain’t well larned enough.” 

“ Oh, there are a thousand other ways in which you can 
help, and I feel sure that you will.” 

“ Of co’se, I’ll do de ve’y bes’ I kin.” 

“ There is one thing I want you to do soon, as a favor to 
me.” 

“ I can’t go to de mou’nah’s bench,” cried the boy, in con¬ 
sternation. 

“ And I don’t want you to,” was the calm reply. 

Another look of wide-eyed astonishment took in the preach¬ 
er’s face. These were strange words from one of his guild. 
But without noticing the surprise he had created, Dokesbury 
went on: “ What I want is that you will take me fishing as 
soon as you can. I never get tired of fishing and I am anxious 
to go here. Tom Scott says you fish a great deal about here.” 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


239 

“ Why, we kin go dis ve’y afternoon,” exclaimed ’Lias, in 
relief and delight; “ I’s mighty fond o’ fishin’, myse’f.” 

“ All right; I’m in your hands from now on.” 

’Lias drew his shoulders up, with an unconscious motion. 
The preacher saw it, and mentally rejoiced. He felt that the 
first thing the boy beside him needed was a consciousness of 
responsibility, and the lifted shoulders meant progress in that 
direction, a sort of physical straightening up to correspond 
with the moral one. 

On seeing her son walk in with the minister, Aunt 11 Ca’- 
line’s ” delight was boundless. “ La! Brothah Dokesbury,” she 
exclaimed, “ wha’d you fin’ dat scamp? ” 

“ Oh, down the street here,” the young man replied lightly. 
“ I got hold of his name and made myself acquainted, so he 
came home to go fishing with me.” 

“ ’Lias is pow’ful fon’ o’ fishin’, hisse’f. I ’low he kin show 
you some mighty good places. Cain’t you, ’Lias? ” 

“ I reckon.” 

’Lias was thinking. He was distinctly grateful that the cir¬ 
cumstances of his meeting with the minister had been so deftly 
passed over. But with a half idea of the superior moral re¬ 
sponsibility under which a man in Dokesbury’s position labored, 
he wondered vaguely—to put it in his own thought-words— 
“ ef de preachah hadn’t put’ nigh lied.” However, he was 
willing to forgive this little lapse of veracity, if such it was, 
out of consideration for the anxiety it spared his mother. 

When Stephen Gray came in to dinner, he was no less pleased 
than his wife to note the terms of friendship on which the 
minister received his son. On his face was the first smile that 
Dokesbury had seen there, and he awakened from his taciturn¬ 
ity and proffered much information as to the fishing-places 
thereabout. The young minister accounted this a distinct gain. 
Anything more than a frowning silence from the “ little yaller 
man ” was gain. 

The fishing that afternoon was particularly good. Catfish, 


240 


AMERICANS ALL 


chubs, and suckers were landed in numbers sufficient to please 
the heart of any amateur angler. 

’Lias was happy, and the minister was in the best of spirits, 
for his charge seemed promising. He looked on at the boy’s 
jovial face, and laughed within himself; for, mused he, “ it is 
so much harder for the devil to get into a cheerful heart 
than into a sullen, gloomy one.” By the time they were ready 
to go home Harold Dokesbury had received a promise from 
’Lias to attend service the next morning and hear the sermon. 

There was a great jollification over the fish supper that 
night, and ’Lias and the minister were the heroes of the occa¬ 
sion. The old man again broke his silence, and recounted, with 
infinite dryness, ancient tales of his prowess with rod and 
line; while Aunt “ Ca’line ” told of famous fish suppers that 
in the bygone days she had cooked for “ de white folks.” In 
the midst of it all, however, ’Lias disappeared. No one had 
noticed when he slipped out, but all seemed to become con¬ 
scious of his absence about the same time. The talk shifted, 
and finally simmered into silence. 

When the Rev. Mr. Dokesbury went to bed that night, his 
charge had not yet returned. 

The young minister woke early on the Sabbath morning, and 
he may be forgiven that the prospect of the ordeal through 
which he had to pass drove his care for ’Lias out of mind 
for the first few hours. But as he walked to church, flanked 
on one side by Aunt Caroline in the stiffest of ginghams and 
on the other by her husband stately in the magnificence of an 
antiquated “ Jim-swinger,” his mind went back to the boy with 
sorrow. Where was he? What was he doing? Had the fear 
of a dull church service frightened him back to his old habits 
and haunts? There was a new sadness at the preacher’s heart 
as he threaded his way down the crowded church and ascended 
the rude pulpit. 

The church was stiflingly hot, and the morning sun still beat 
relentlessly in through the plain windows. The seats were rude 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


241 


wooden benches, in some instances without backs. To the right, 
filling the inner corner, sat the pillars of the church, stern, grim, 
and critical. Opposite them, and, like them, in seats at right 
angles to the main body, sat the older sisters, some of them 
dressed with good old-fashioned simplicity, while others yield¬ 
ing to newer tendencies were gotten up in gaudy attempts at 
finery. In the rear seats a dozen or so much beribboned 
mulatto girls tittered and giggled, and cast bold glances at the 
minister. 

The young man sighed as he placed the manuscript of his 
sermon between the leaves of the tattered Bible. “ And this is 
Mt. Hope,” he was again saying to himself. 

It was after the prayer and in the midst of the second hymn 
that a more pronounced titter from the back seats drew his 
attention. He raised his head to cast a reproving glance at the 
irreverent, but the sight that met his eyes turned that look into 
one of horror. ’Lias had just entered the church, and with 
every mark of beastly intoxication was staggering up the aisle 
to a seat, into which he tumbled in a drunken heap. The 
preacher’s soul turned sick within him, and his eyes sought 
the face of the mother and father. The old woman was wiping 
her eyes, and the old man sat with his gaze bent upon the floor, 
lines of sorrow drawn about his wrinkled mouth. 

All of a sudden a great revulsion of feeling came over Dokes- 
bury. Trembling he rose and opened the Bible. There lay his 
sermon, polished and perfected. The opening lines seemed to 
him like glints from a bright cold crystal. What had he to 
say to these people, when the full realization of human sorrow 
and care and of human degradation had just come to him? 
What had they to do with firstlies and secondlies, with premises 
and conclusions? What they wanted was a strong hand to help 
them over the hard places of life and a loud voice to cheer 
them through the dark. He closed the book again upon his 
precious sermon. A something new had been born in his heart. 
He let his glance rest for another instant on the mother’s 


242 


AMERICANS ALL 


pained face and the father’s bowed form, and then turning to 
the congregation began, “ Come unto me, all ye that labor and 
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon 
you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and 
ye shall find rest unto your souls.” Out of the fullness of 
*iis heart he spoke unto them. Their great need informed his 
utterance. He forgot his carefully turned sentences and per¬ 
fectly rounded periods. He forgot all save that here was the 
well-being of a community put into his hands whose real con¬ 
dition he had not even suspected until now. The situation 
wrought him up. His words went forth like winged fire, and 
the emotional people were moved beyond control. They 
shouted, and clapped their hands, and praised the Lord loudly. 

When the service was over, there was much gathering about 
the young preacher, and handshaking. Through all ’Lias had 
slept. His mother started toward him; but the minister 
managed to whisper to her, “ Leave him to me.” When the 
congregation had passed out, Dokesbury shook ’Lias. The boy 
woke, partially sobered, and his face fell before the preacher’s 
eyes. 

“ Come, my boy, let’s go home.” Arm in arm they went 
out into the street, where a number of scoffers had gathered 
to have a laugh at the abashed boy; but Harold Dokesbury’s 
strong arm steadied his steps, and something in his face checked 
the crowd’s hilarity. Silently they cleared the way, and the 
two passed among them and went home. 

The minister saw clearly the things which he had to com¬ 
bat in his community, and through this one victim he deter¬ 
mined to fight the general evil. The people with whom he 
had to deal were children who must be led by the hand. The 
boy lying in drunken sleep upon his bed was no worse than 
the rest of them. He was an epitome of the evil, as his 
parents were of the sorrows, of the place. 

He could not talk to Elias. He could not lecture him. He 
would only be dashing his words against the accumulated evil 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


243 


of years of bondage as the ripples of a summer sea beat against 
a stone wall. It was not the wickedness of this boy he was 
fighting or even the wrong-doing of Mt. Hope. It was the 
aggregation of the evils of the fathers, the grandfathers, the 
masters and mistresses of these people. Against this what 
could talk avail? 

The boy slept on, and the afternoon passed heavily away. 
Aunt Caroline was finding solace in her pipe, and Stephen Gray 
sulked in moody silence beside the hearth. Neither of them 
joined their guest at evening service. 

He went, however. It was hard to face those people again 
after the events of the morning. He could feel them covertly 
nudging each other and grinning as he went up to the pulpit. 
He chided himself for the momentary annoyance it caused him. 
Were they not like so many naughty, irresponsible children? 

The service passed without unpleasantness, save that he 
went home with an annoyingly vivid impression of a yellow 
girl with red ribbons on her hat, who pretended to be im¬ 
pressed by his sermon and made eyes at him from behind her 
handkerchief. 

On the way to his room that night, as he passed Stephen 
Gray, the old man whispered huskily, “ It’s de fus’ time ’Lias 
evah done dat.” 

It was the only word he had spoken since morning. 

A sound sleep refreshed Dokesbury, and restored the tone 
to his overtaxed nerves. When he came out in the morning, 
Elias was already in the kitchen. He too had slept off his 
indisposition, but it had been succeeded by a painful embar¬ 
rassment that proved an effectual barrier to all intercourse 
with him. The minister talked lightly and amusingly, but 
the boy never raised his eyes from his plate, and only spoke 
when he was compelled to answer some direct questions. 

Harold Dokesbury knew that unless he could overcome this 
reserve, his power over the youth was gone. He bent every 
effort to do it. 


244 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ What do you say to a turn down the street with me? ” he 
asked as he rose from breakfast. 

’Lias shook his head. 

“ What! You haven’t deserted me already? ” 

The older people had gone out, but young Gray looked 
furtively about before he replied: “ You know I ain’t fittin’ 
to go out with you—aftah—aftah—yestiddy.” 

A dozen appropriate texts rose in the preacher’s mind, but 
he knew that it was not a preaching time, so he contented him¬ 
self with saying,— 

“ Oh, get out! Come along! ” 

“No, I cain’t. I cain’t. I wisht I could! You needn’t 
think I’s ashamed, ’cause I ain’t. Plenty of ’em git drunk, an’ 
I don’t keer nothin’ ’bout dat ”—this in a defiant tone. 

“ Well, why not come along then? ” 

“ I tell you I cain’t. Don’t ax me no mo’. It ain’t on my 
account I won’t go. It’s you.” 

“ Me! Why, I want you to go.” 

“ I know you does, but I mustn’t. Cain’t you see that 
dey’d be glad to say dat—dat you was in cahoots wif me an’ 
you tuk yo’ dram on de sly? ” 

“ I don’t care what they say so long as it isn't true. Are you 
coming? ” 

“ No, I ain’t.” 

He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there 
was no use arguing with him. So with a resigned “ All right! ” 
he strode out the gate and up the street, thinking of the problem 
he had to solve. 

There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame 
that it should be lost. It would be lost unless he were drawn 
strongly away from the paths he was treading. But how could 
it be done? Was there no point in his mind that could be 
reached by what was other than evil? That was the thing to 
be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, he 
were not trying to do too much,—trying, in fact, to play Provi- 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


245 


dence to Elias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift 
the responsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that 
something entirely independent of his intentions would 
happen. 

Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled 
from some unknown source caught the minister square in the 
chest, and spattered over his clothes. He raised his eyes and 
glanced about quickly, but no one was in sight. Whoever 
the foe was, he was securely ambushed. 

“ Thrown by the hand of a man,” mused Dokesbury, 
“ prompted by the malice of a child.” 

He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to 
the house. 

“ La, Brothah Dokesbury! ” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, 
“ what’s de mattah ’f you’ shu’t bosom? ” 

“ Oh, that’s where one of our good citizens left his card.” 

“ You don’ mean to say none o’ dem low-life scoun’els-” 

“ I don’t know who did it. He took particular pains to keep 
out of sight.” 

“ ’Lias! ” the old woman cried, turning on her son, “ wha’ ’d 
you let Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse’f fu? Why n’t you 
go ’long an’ tek keer o’ him? ” 

The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her 
eyes took in the expression on her son’s face. 

“ I’ll kill some 0’ dem damn-” 

“ ’Lias! ” 

“ ’Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I’ll bus’ ef 
I don’t ’spress myse’f. It makes me so mad. Don’t you go 
out 0’ hyeah no mo’ ’dout me. I’ll go ’long an’ I’ll brek 
somebody’s haid wif a stone.” 

“’Lias! how you talkin’ fo’ de ministah? ” 

“Well, dat’s whut I’ll do, ’cause I kin outth’ow any of 
’em an’ I know dey hidin’-places.” 

“ I’ll be glad to accept your protection,” said Dokesbury. 

He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud,—the 


AMERICANS ALL 


246 

one thing that without an effort restored the easy relations 
between himself and his protege. 

Ostensibly these relations were reversed, and Elias went out 
with the preacher as a guardian and protector. But the minis¬ 
ter was laying his nets. It was on one of these rambles that 
he broached to ’Lias a subject which he had been considering 
for some time.” 

“ Look here, ’Lias,” he said, “ what are you going to do 
with that big back yard of yours? ” 

“ Oh, nothin’. ’Tain’t no ’count to raise nothin’ in.” 

“ It may not be fit for vegetables, but it will raise some¬ 
thing.” 

“ What? ” 

“ Chickens. That’s what.” 

Elias laughed sympathetically. 

“ I’d lak to eat de chickens I raise. I wouldn’t want to 
be feedin’ de neighborhood.” 

“ Plenty of boards, slats, wire, and a good lock and key 
would fix that all right.” 

“ Yes, but whah ’m I gwine to git all dem things? ” 

“ Why, I’ll go in with you and furnish the money, and help 
you build the coops. Then you can sell chickens and eggs, and 
we’ll go halves on the profits.” 

“Hush man! ” cried ’Lias, in delight. 

So the matter was settled, and, as Aunt Caroline expressed 
it, “ Fu’ a week er sich a mattah, you nevah did see sich ta’in’ 
down an’ buildin’ up in all yo’ bo’n days.” 

’Lias went at the work with zest and Dokesbury noticed his 
skill with tools. He let fall the remark: “ Say, ’Lias, there’s a 
school near here where they teach carpentry; why don’t you 
go and learn? ” 

“ What I gwine to do with bein’ a cyahpenter? ” 

“ Repair some of these houses around Mt. Hope, if noth¬ 
ing more,” Dokesbury responded, laughing; and there the mat¬ 
ter rested. 


THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 


247 

The work prospered, and as the weeks went on, ’Lias’s enter¬ 
prise became the town’s talk. One of Aunt Caroline’s patrons 
who had come with some orders about work regarded the 
changed condition of affairs, and said, “ Why, Aunt Caroline, 
this doesn’t look like the same place. I’ll have to buy some 
eggs from you; you keep your yard and hen-house so nice, it’s 
an advertisement for the eggs.” 

u Don’t talk to me nothin’ ’bout dat ya’d, Miss Lucy,” 
Aunt Caroline had retorted. “ Dat ’long to ’Lias an’ de 
preachah. Hit dey doin’s. Dey done mos’ nigh drove me out 
wif dey cleanness. I ain’t nevah seed no sich ca’in’ on in my 
life befo’. Why, my ’Lias done got right brigity an’ talk 
about bein’ somep’n.” 

Dokesbury had retired from his partnership with the boy 
save in so far as he acted as a general supervisor. His share 
had been sold to a friend of ’Lias, Jim Hughes. The two 
seemed to have no other thought save of raising, tending, and 
selling chickens. 

Mt. Hope looked on and ceased to scoff. Money is a great 
dignifier, and Jim and ’Lias were making money. There had 
been some sniffs when the latter had hinged the front gate 
and whitewashed his mother’s cabin, but even that had been 
accepted now as a matter of course. 

Dokesbury had done his work. He, too, looked on, and in 
some satisfaction. 

“ Let the leaven work,” he said, “ and all Mt. Hope must 
rise.” 

It was one day, nearly a year later, that “ old lady Hughes ” 
dropped in on Aunt Caroline for a chat. 

“ Well, I do say, Sis’ Ca’line, dem two boys o’ ourn done sot 
dis town on fiah.” 

“ What now, Sis’ Lizy? ” 

“ Why, evah sence ’Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpen- 
ter an’ Jim ’cided to go ’long an’ lu’n to be a blacksmiff, some 


248 AMERICANS ALL 

o’ dese hyeah othah young people’s been trying to do some- 
p’n’.” 

“ All dey wanted was a staht.” 

“ Well, now will you b’lieve me, dat no-’count Tom John¬ 
son done opened a fish sto’, an’ he has de boys an’ men bring 
him dey fish all de time. He gives ’em a little somep’n fu’ 
dey ketch, den he go sell ’em to de white folks.” 

“Lawd, how long! ” 

“ An’ what you think he say? ” 

“ I do’ know, sis’.” 

“ He say ez soon ’z he git money enough, he gwine to dat 
school whah ’Lias and Jim gone an’ lu’n to fahm scientific.” 

“Bless de Lawd! Well, ’um, I don’ put nothin’ pas’ de 
young folks now.” 

Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to 
her to which she might aspire,—something that she could 
understand and reach. She was not soaring, but she was ris¬ 
ing above the degradation in which Harold Dokesbury had 
found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed. 



PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 


The Negro race in America has produced musicians, com¬ 
posers and painters, but it was left for Paul Laurence Dunbar 
to give it fame in literature. He was of pure African stock; his 
father and mother were born in slavery, and neither had any 
schooling, although the father had taught himself to read. 
Paul was born in Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. He was 
christened Paul, because his father said that he was to be a 
great man. He was a diligent pupil at school, and began to 
make verses when he was still a child. Plis ability was recog¬ 
nized by his class mates; he was made editor of the high 
school paper, and wrote the class song for his commencement. 

The death of his father made it necessary for him to sup¬ 
port his mother. He sought for some employment where his 
education might be put to some use, but finding such places 
closed to him, he became an elevator boy. He continued to 
write, however, and in 1892 his first volume was published, 
a book of poems called Oak and Ivy. The publishers were so 
doubtful of its success that they would not bring it out until 
a friend advanced the cost of publication. Paul now sold 
books to the passengers in his elevator, and realized enough 
to repay his friend. He was occasionally asked to give read¬ 
ings from his poetry. Gifted as he was with a deep, melodious 
voice, and a fine power of mimicry, he was very successful. In 
1893 he was sought out by a man who was organizing a con¬ 
cert company and who engaged Paul to go along as reader. 
Full of enthusiasm, he set to work committing his poems to 
memory, and writing new ones. Ten days before the company 
was to start, word came that it had been disbanded. Paul 
found himself at the approach of winter without money and 


249 


AMERICANS ALL 


250 

without work, and with his mother in real need. In his dis¬ 
couragement he even thought of suicide, but by the help of a 
friend he found work, and with it courage. In a letter written 
about this time he tells of his ambitions: “ I did once want to be 
a lawyer, but that ambition has long since died out before the 
all-absorbing desire to be a worthy singer of the songs of God 
and nature. To be able to interpret my own people through 
song and story, and to prove to the many that we are more 
human than African.” 

A second volume of poems, Majors and Minors , appeared in 
1895. Like his first book it was printed by a local publisher, 
and had but a small sale. The actor James A. Herne hap¬ 
pened to be playing Shore Acres in Toledo; Paul saw him, 
admired his acting, and timidly presented him with a copy 
of his book. Mr. Herne read it with great pleasure, and sent 
it on to his friend William Dean Howells, who was then editor 
of Harper’s Weekly. In June, 1896, there appeared in that 
journal a full-page review of the work of Paul Laurence Dun¬ 
bar, quoting freely from his poems, and praising them highly. 
This recognition by America’s greatest critic was the begin¬ 
ning of Paul’s national reputation. Orders came for his books 
from all over the country; a manager engaged him for a series 
of readings from his poems, and a New York firm, Dodd 
Mead & Co., arranged to bring out his next book, Lyrics of 
Lowly Life. 

In 1897 he went to England to give a series of readings. 
Here he was a guest at the Savage Club, one of the best-known 
clubs of London. His readings were very successful, but a 
dishonest manager cheated him out of the proceeds, and he 
was obliged to cable to his friends for money to come home. 

Through the efforts of Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, the young 
poet obtained a position in the Congressional Library at Wash¬ 
ington. It was thought that this would give him just the 
opportunity he needed for study, but the work proved too con¬ 
fining for his health. The year 1898 was marked by two 


PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 


251 


events: the publication of his first book of short stories, Folks 
From Dixie, and his marriage to Miss Alice R. Moore. In 
1899 at the request of Booker T. Washington he went to 
Tuskeegee and gave several readings and lectures before the 
students, also writing a school song for them. He made a 
tour through the South, giving readings with much success, but 
the strain of public appearances was beginning to tell upon his 
health. He continued to write, and in 1899 published Lyrics 
of the Hearthside, dedicated to his wife. He was invited to go 
to Albany to read before a distinguished audience, where 
Theodore Roosevelt, then governor, was to introduce him. 
He started, but was unable to get farther than New York. 
Here he lay sick for weeks, and when he grew stronger, the 
doctors said that his lungs were affected and he must have a 
change of climate. He went to Colorado in the fall of 1899, 
and wrote back to a friend: “ Well, it is something to sit under 
the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, even if one only goes 
there to die.” From this time on his life was one long fight 
for health, and usually a losing battle, but he faced it as 
courageously as Robert Louis Stevenson had done. In Colo¬ 
rado he wrote a novel, The Love of Landry, whose scene was 
laid in his new surroundings. He returned to Washington in 
1900, and gave occasional readings, but it was evident that his 
strength was failing. He published two more volumes, The 
Strength of Gideon, a book of short stories, and Poems of Cabin 
and Field, which showed that his genius had lost none of its 
power. His last years were spent in Dayton, his old home, 
with his mother. He died February 10, 1906. 

One of the finest tributes to him was paid by his friend 
Brand Whitlock, then Mayor of Toledo, who has since become 
famous as United States Minister to Belgium during the Great 
War. This is from a letter written when he heard that the 
young poet was dead: 

Paul was a poet: and I find that when I have said that I have 
said the greatest and most splendid thing that can be said about 


252 


AMERICANS ALL 


a man. . . . Nature, who knows so much better than man about 
everything, cares nothing at all for the little distinctions, and when 
she elects one of her children for her most important work, be¬ 
stows on him the rich gift of poesy, and assigns him a post in the 
greatest of the arts, she invariably seizes the opportunity to show 
her contempt of rank and title and race and land and creed. She 
took Burns from a plough and Paul from an elevator, and Paul 
has done for his own people what Burns did for the peasants of 
Scotland—he has expressed them in their own way and in their 
own words. 


WITH THE POLICE 


Not all Americans are good Americans. For the law¬ 
breakers, American born or otherwise, we need men to enforce 
the law. Of these guardians of public safety, one body, the 
Pennsylvania State Police, has become famous for its achieve¬ 
ments. Katherine Mayo studied their work at first hand, met 
the men of the force, visited the scenes of their activity, and 
in The Standard Bearers, tells of their daring exploits. This 
story is taken from that book. 




ISRAEL DRAKE 


BY 

Katherine Mayo 

Israel Drake was a bandit for simple love of the thing. To 
hunt for another reason would be a waste of time. The blood 
in his veins was pure English, unmixed since long ago. His 
environment was that of his neighbors. His habitat was the 
noble hills. But Israel Drake was a bandit, just as his neigh¬ 
bors were farmers—just as a hawk is a hawk while its neighbors 
are barnyard fowls. 

Israel Drake was swarthy-visaged, high of cheek bone, with 
large, dark, deep-set eyes, and a thin-lipped mouth covered by 
a long and drooping black mustache. Barefooted, he stood 
six feet two inches tall. Lean as a panther, and as supple, he 
could clear a five-foot rail fence without the aid of his hand. 
He ran like a deer. As a woodsman the very deer could 
have taught him little. With rifle and revolver he was an ex¬ 
pert shot, and the weapons he used were the truest and best. 

All the hill-people of Cumberland County dreaded him. 
All the scattered valley-folk spoke softly at his name. And the 
jest and joy of Israel’s care-free life was to make them skip 
and shiver and dance to the tune of their trepidations. 

As a matter of fact, he was leader of a gang, outlaws every 
one. But his own strong aura eclipsed the rest, and he glared 
alone, in the thought of his world, endued with terrors of 
diverse origin. 

His genius kept him fully aware of the value of this pre¬ 
eminence, and it lay in his wisdom and pleasure to fan the 
flame of his own repute. In this it amused him to seek the 

255 


AMERICANS ALL 


256 

picturesque—the unexpected. With an imagination fed by 
primeval humor and checked by no outward circumstances of 
law, he achieved a ready facility. Once, for example, while 
trundling through his town of Shippensburg on the rear plat¬ 
form of a freight train, he chanced to spy a Borough Constable 
crossing a bridge near the track. 

“ Happy thought! Let’s touch the good soul up. He’s get¬ 
ting stodgy.” 

Israel drew a revolver and fired, neatly nicking the Con- 
table’s hat. Then with a mountaineer’s hoot, he gayly pro¬ 
claimed his identity. 

Again, and many times, he would send into this or that town 
or settlement a message addressed to the Constable or Chief 
of Police:— 

“ I am coming down this afternoon. Get away out of town. 
Don’t let me find you there.” 

Obediently they went away. And Israel, strolling the streets 
that afternoon just as he had promised to do, would enter 
shop after shop, look over the stock at his leisure, and, with 
perfect good-humor, pick out whatever pleased him, regardless 
of cost. 

“ I think I’ll take this here article,” he would say to the 
trembling store-keeper, affably pocketing his choice. 

“ Help yourself, Mr. Drake! Help yourself, sir! Glad 
we are able to please you to-day.” 

Which was indeed the truth. And many of them there were 
who would have hastened to curry favor with their persecutor 
by whispering in his ear a word of warning had they known of 
any impending attempt against him by the agents of peace. 

Such was their estimate of the relative strength of Israel 
Drake and of the law forces of the Sovereign State of Penn¬ 
sylvania. 

In the earlier times they had tried to arrest him. Once the 
attempt succeeded and Israel went to the Penitentiary for a 
term. But he emerged a better and wilier bandit than before, 



ISRAEL DRAKE 


257 


to embark upon a career that made his former life seem tame. 
Sheriffs and constables now proved powerless against him, 
whatever they essayed. 

Then came a grand, determined effort when the Sheriff, sup¬ 
ported by fifteen deputies, all heavily armed, actually sur¬ 
rounded Drake’s house. But the master-outlaw, alone and at 
ease at an upper window, his Winchester repeating-rifle in his 
hand and a smile of still content on his face, coolly stood the 
whole army off until, weary of empty danger, it gave up the 
siege and went home. 

This disastrous expedition ended the attempts of the local 
authorities to capture Israel Drake. Thenceforth he pursued 
his natural course without pretense of let or hindrance. At 
the time when this story begins, no fewer than fourteen war¬ 
rants were out for his apprehension, issued on charges ranging 
from burglary and highway robbery through a long list of 
felonies. But the warrants, slowly accumulating, lay in the 
bottom of official drawers, apprehending nothing but dust. No 
one undertook to serve them. Life was too sweet—too short. 

Then came a turn of fate. Israel chanced to bethink him¬ 
self of a certain aged farmer living with his old wife near 
a spot called Lee’s Cross-Road. The two dwelt by them¬ 
selves, without companions on their farm, and without neigh¬ 
bors. And they were reputed to have money. 

The money might not be much—might be exceedingly little. 
But, even so, Israel could use it, and in any event there would 
be the fun of the trick. So Israel summoned one Carey Mor¬ 
rison, a gifted mate and subordinate, with whom he proceeded 
to act. 

At dead of night the two broke into the farmhouse—crept 
into the chamber of the old pair—crept softly, softly, lest 
the farmer might keep a shotgun by his side. Sneaking to 
the foot of the bed, Israel suddenly flashed his lantern full 
upon the pillows—upon the two pale, deep-seamed faces 
crowned with silver hair. 


AMERICANS ALL 


258 

The woman sat up with a piercing scream. The farmer 
clutched at his gun. But Israel, bringing the glinting barrel 
of his revolver into the lantern's shaft of light, ordered both to 
lie down. Carey, slouching at hand, awaited orders. 

“ Where is your money? ” demanded Israel, indicating the 
farmer by the point of his gun. 

“I have no money, you coward! ” 

“ It’s no use your lying to me. Where’s the money? ” 

“1 have no money, I tell you.” 

“ Carey,” observed Israel, “ hunt a candle.” 

While Carey looked for the candle, Israel surveyed his vic¬ 
tims with a cheerful, anticipatory grin. 

The candle came; was lighted. 

“ Carey,” Israel spoke again, “ you pin the old woman 
down. Pull the quilt off. Clamp her feet together. So! ” 

Then he thrust the candle-flame against the soles of those 
gnarled old feet—thrust it close, while the flame bent upward, 
and the melting tallow poured upon the bed. 

The woman screamed again, this time in pain. The farmer 
half rose, with a quivering cry of rage, but Israel’s gun stared 
him between the eyes. The woman screamed without interval. 
There was a smell of burning flesh. 

“ Now we’ll change about,” remarked Israel, beaming. “ I’ll 
hold the old feller. You take the candle, Carey. You don’t 
reely need your gun—now, do ye, boy? ” 

And so they began afresh. 

It was not a game to last long. Before dawn the two were 
back in their own place, bearing the little all of value that 
the rifled house had contained. 

When the news of the matter spread abroad, it seemed, 
somehow, just a straw too much. The District Attorney of 
the County of Cumberland blazed into white heat. But he 
was powerless, he found. Not an officer within his entire 
jurisdiction expressed any willingness even to attempt an 
arrest. 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


259 

“ Then we shall see,” said District Attorney Rhey, “ what 
the State will do for us, since we cannot help ourselves! ” 
And he rushed off a telegram, confirmed by post, to the 
Superintendent of the Department of State Police. 

The Superintendent of the Department of State Police 
promptly referred the matter to the Captain of “ C ” Troop, 
with orders to act. For Cumberland County, being within the 
southeastern quarter of the Commonwealth, lies under “ C ” 
Troop’s special care. 

It was Adams, in those days, who held that command— 
Lynn G. Adams, now Captain of “ A ” Troop, although for the 
duration of the war serving in the regular army, even as his 
fathers before him have served in our every war, including that 
which put the country on the map. Truer soldier, finer offi¬ 
cer, braver or straighter or surer dealer with men and things 
need not be sought. His victories leave no needless scar be¬ 
hind, and his command would die by inches rather than fail 
him anywhere. 

The Captain of “ C ” Troop, then, choosing with judgment, 
picked his man—picked Trooper Edward Hallisey, a Boston 
Irishman, square of jaw, shrewd of eye, quick of wit, strong 
of wind and limb. And he ordered Private Hallisey to pro¬ 
ceed at once to Carlisle, county seat of Cumberland, and report 
to the District Attorney for service toward effecting the appre¬ 
hension of Israel Drake. 

Three days later—it was the 28th of September, to be exact 
—Private Edward Hallisey sent in his report to his Troop 
Commander. He had made all necessary observations, he 
said, and was ready to arrest the criminal. In this he would 
like to have the assistance of two Troopers, who should join 
him at Carlisle. 

The report came in the morning mail. First Sergeant Price 
detailed two men from the Barracks reserve. They were Pri¬ 
vates H. K. Merryfield and Harvey J. Smith. Their orders 
were simply to proceed at once, in civilian clothes, to Carlisle, 


26 o 


AMERICANS ALL 


where they would meet Private Hallisey and assist him in 
effecting the arrest of Israel Drake. 

Privates Merryfield and Smith, carrying in addition to their 
service revolvers the 44-caliber Springfield carbine which is 
the Force’s heavy weapon, left by the next train. 

On the Carlisle station platform, as the two Troopers de¬ 
barked, some hundred persons were gathered in pursuance of 
various and centrifugal designs. But one impulse they ap¬ 
peared unanimously to share—the impulse to give as wide a 
berth as possible to a peculiarly horrible tramp. 

Why should a being like that intrude himself upon a pas¬ 
senger platform in a respectable country town? Not to board 
a coach, surely, for such as he pay no fares. To spy out the 
land? To steal luggage? Or simply to make himself hateful 
to decent folk? 

He carried his head with a hangdog lurch—his heavy jaw 
was rough with stubble beard. His coat and trousers flut¬ 
tered rags and his toes stuck out of his boots. Women 
snatched back their skirts as he slouched near, and men mut¬ 
tered and scowled at him for a contaminating beast. 

Merryfield and Smith, drifting near this scum of the earth, 
caught the words “ Four-thirty train ” and the name of a 
station. 

“ Right,” murmured Merryfield. 

Then he went and bought tickets. 

In the shelter of an ancient, grimy day-coach, the scum mut¬ 
tered again, as Smith brushed past him in the aisle. 

“ Charlie Stover’s farm,” said he. 

“ M’m,” said Smith. 

At a scrap of a station, in the foothills of ascending heights 
the tramp and the Troopers separately detrained. In the 
early evening all three strayed together once more in the 
shadow of the lilacs by Charlie Stover’s gate. 

Over the supper-table Hallisey gave the news. “ Drake is 
somewhere on the mountain to-night,” said he. “His cabin 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


261 


is way up high, on a ridge called Huckleberry Patch. He is 
practically sure to go home in the course of the evening. Then 
is our chance. First, of course, you fellows will change your 
clothes. I’ve got some old things ready for you.” 

Farmer Stover, like every other denizen of the rural county, 
had lived for years in terror and hatfecTof Israel Drake. Will¬ 
ingly he had aided Hallisey to the full extent of his power. 
He had told all that he knew of the bandit’s habits and mates. 
He had indicated the mountain trails and he had given the 
Trooper such little shelter and food as the latter had stopped 
to take during his rapid work of investigation. But now he 
was asked to perform a service that he would gladly have re¬ 
fused; he was asked to hitch up a horse and wagon and to 
drive the three Troopers to the very vicinity of Israel Drake’s 
house. 

“ Oh, come on, Mr. Stover,” they urged. “ You’re a public- 
spirited man, as you’ve shown. Do it for your neighbors’ sake 
if not for your own. You want the county rid of this pest.” 

Very reluctantly the farmer began the trip. With every 
turn of the ever-mounting forest road his reluctance grew. 
Grisly memories* grisly pictures, flooded his mind. It was night, 
and the trees in the darkness whispered like evil men. The 
bushes huddled like crouching figures. And what was it, mov¬ 
ing stealthily over there, that crackled twigs? At last he 
could bear it no more. 

“ Here’s where I turn ’round,” he muttered hoarsely. “ If 
you fellers are going farther you’ll go alone. I got a use for 
my life! ” 

“ All right, then,” said Hallisey. “ You’ve done well by us 
already. Good-night.” 

It was a fine moonlight night and Plallisey now knew those 
woods as well as did his late host. He led his two comrades 
up another stiff mile of steady climbing. Then he struck 
off, by an almost invisible trail, into the dense timber. Silently 
the three men moved, threading the fragrant, silver-flecked 


262 


AMERICANS ALL 


blackness with practised woodsmen’s skill. At last their file- 
leader stopped and beckoned his mates. 

Over his shoulder the two studied the scene before them: 
A clearing chopped out of the dense tall timber. In the midst 
of the clearing a log cabin, a story and a half high. On two 
sides of the cabin a straggling orchard of peach and apple trees. 
In the cabin window a dim light. 

It was then about eleven o’clock. The three Troopers, ef¬ 
facing themselves in the shadows, laid final plans. 

The cabin had two rooms on the top floor and one below, 
said Hallisey, beneath his breath. The first-floor room had 
a door and two windows on the north, and the same on the 
south, just opposite. Under the west end was a cellar, with an 
outside door. Before the main door to the north was a little 
porch. This, by day, commanded the sweep of the mountain¬ 
side; and here, when Drake was “ hiding out ” in some neigh¬ 
boring eyrie, expecting pursuit, his wife was wont to signal 
him concerning the movements of intruders. 

Her code was written in dish-water. A panful thrown to the 
east meant danger in the west, and vice versa; this Hallisey 
himself had seen and now recalled in case of need. 

Up to the present moment each officer had carried his car¬ 
bine, taken apart and wrapped in a bundle, to avoid the 
remark of chance observers by the way. Now each put his 
weapon together, ready for use. They compared their watches, 
setting them to the second. They discarded their coats and 
hats. 

The moon was flooding the clearing with high, pale light, 
adding greatly to the difficulty of their task. Accordingly, 
they plotted carefully. Each Trooper took a door—Hallisey 
that to the north, Merryfield that to the south, Smith that of 
the cellar. It was agreed that each should creep to a point 
opposite the door on which he was to advance, ten minutes 
being allowed for all to reach their initial positions; that at 
exactly five minutes to midnight the advance should be started, 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


263 

slowly, through the tall grass of the clearing toward the cabin; 
that in case of any unusual noise or alarm, each man should 
lie low exactly five minutes before resuming this advance; 
and that from a point fifty yards from the cabin a rush should 
be made upon the doors. 

According to the request of the District Attorney, Drake 
was to be taken “ dead or alive,” but according to an adaman¬ 
tine principle of the Force, he must be taken not only alive, 
but unscathed if that were humanly possible. This meant 
that he must not be given an opportunity to run and so 
render shooting necessary. If, however, he should break away, 
his chance of escape would be small, as each Trooper was a 
dead shot with the weapons he was carrying. 

The scheme concerted, the three officers separated, heading 
apart to their several starting-points. At five minutes before 
midnight, to the tick of their synchronized watches, each be¬ 
gan to glide through the tall grass. But it was late September. 
The grass was dry. Old briar-veins dragged at brittle stalks. 
Shimmering whispers of withered leaves echoed to the small¬ 
est touch; and when the men were still some two hundred 
yards from the cabin the sharp ears of a dog caught the 
rumor of all these tiny sounds,—and the dog barked. 

Every man stopped short—moved not a finger again till five 
minutes had passed. Then once more each began to creep— 
reached the fifty-yard point—stood up, with a long breath, 
and dashed for his door. 

At one and the same moment, practically, the three stood 
in the cabin, viewing a scene of domestic peace. A short, 
square, swarthy woman, black of eye, high of cheek bone, 
stood by a stove calmly stirring a pot. On the table besides 
her, on the floor around her, clustered many jars of peaches 
—jars freshly filled, steaming hot, awaiting their tops. In a 
corner three little children, huddled together on a low bench, 
stared at the strangers with sleepy eyes. Three chairs; a cup¬ 
board with dishes; bunches of corn hanging from the rafters 


AMERICANS ALL 


264 

by their husks; festoons of onions; tassels of dried herbs—all 
this made visible by the dull light of a small kerosene lamp 
whose dirty chimney was streaked with smoke. All this and 
nothing more. 

Two of the men, jumping for the stairs, searched the upper 
half-story thoroughly, but without profit. 

“ Mrs. Drake,” said Hallisey, as they returned, “ we are 
officers of the State Police, come to arrest your husband. 
Where is he? ” 

In silence, in utter calm the woman still stirred her pot, not 
missing the rhythm of a stroke. 

“ The dog warned them. He’s just got away,” said each 
officer to himself. “ She’s too calm.” 

She scooped up a spoonful of the fruit, peered at it critically, 
splashed it back into the bubbling pot. From her manner it 
appeared the most natural thing in the world to be canning 
peaches at midnight on the top of South Mountain in the pres¬ 
ence of officers of the State Police. 

“ My husband’s gone to Baltimore,” she vouchsafed at her 
easy leisure. 

“ Let’s have a look in the cellar,” said Merryfield, and 
dropped down the cellar stairs with Hallisey at his heels. To¬ 
gether they ransacked the little cave to a conclusion. During 
the process, Merryfield conceived an idea. 

“ Hallisey,” he murmured, “ what would you think of my 
staying down here, while you and Smith go off talking as 
though we were all together? She might say something to the 
children, when she believes we’re gone, and I could hear every 
word through that thin floor.” 

“ We’ll do it! ” Hallisey answered, beneath his voice. Then, 
shouting:— 

“ Come on, Smith! Let’s get away from this; no use wasting 
time here! ” 

And in another moment Smith and Hallisey were crashing 
up the mountain-side, calling out: “Hi, there! Merryfield— 


ISRAEL DRAKE 265 

Oh! Merryfield, wait for us! ”—as if their comrade had out¬ 
stripped them on the trail. 

Merryfield had made use of the noise of their departure 
to establish himself in a tenable position under the widest 
crack in the floor. Now he held himself motionless, subduing 
even his breath. 

One—two—three minutes of dead silence. Then came the 
timorous half-whisper of a frightened child: 

“ Will them men kill father if they find him? ” 

“ S-sh! ” 

“ Mother! ” faintly ventured another little voice, “ will them 
men kill father if they find him? ” 

“ S-sh! S-sh! I tell ye! ” 

“ Ma-ma! Will they kill my father? ” This was the wail, 
insistent, uncontrolled, of the smallest child of all. 

The crackling tramp of the officers, mounting the trail, 
had wholly died away. The woman evidently believed all 
immediate danger past. 

“ No! ” she exclaimed vehemently, “ they ain’t goin’ to lay 
eyes on yo’ father, hair nor hide of him. Quit yer fret- 
tin’! ” 

In a moment she spoke again: “ You keep still, now, like 
good children, while I go out and empty these peach-stones. 
I’ll be back in a minute. See you keep still just where you 
are! ” 

Stealing noiselessly to the cellar door as the woman left 
the house, Merryfield saw her making for the woods, a basket 
on her arm. He watched her till the shadows engulfed her. 
Then he drew back to his own place and resumed his silent 
vigil. 

Moments passed, without a sound from the room above. 
Then came soft little thuds on the floor, a whimper or two, 
small sighs, and a slither of bare legs on bare boards. 

“ Poor little kiddies! ” thought Merryfield, “ they’re coiling 
down to sleep! ” 


266 


AMERICANS ALL 


Back in the days when the Force was started, the Major had 
said to each recruit of them all:— 

“ I expect you to treat women and children at all times with 
every consideration.” 

From that hour forth the principle has been grafted into 
the lives of the men. It is instinct now—self-acting, deep, 
and unconscious. No tried Trooper deliberately remembers 
it. It is an integral part of him, like the drawing of his 
breath. 

“ I wish I could manage to spare those babies and their 
mother in what’s to come! ” Merryfield pondered as he lurked 
in the mould-scented dark. 

A quarter of an hour went by. Five minutes more. Foot¬ 
steps nearing the cabin from the direction of the woods. Low 
voices—very low. Indistinguishable words. Then the back 
door opened. Two persons entered, and all that they now ut¬ 
tered was clear. 

“ It was them that the dog heard,” said a man’s voice. “ Get 
me my rifle and all my ammunition. I’ll go to Maryland. 
I’ll get a job on that stone quarry near Westminster. I’ll 
send some money as soon as I’m paid.” 

“ But you won’t start to-night! ” exclaimed the wife. 

“Yes, to-night—this minute. Quick! I wouldn’t budge 
an inch for the County folks. But with the State Troopers 
after me, that’s another thing. If I stay around here now 
they’ll get me dead sure—and send me up too. My gun, I 
say! ” 

“ Oh, daddy, daddy, don’t go away! ” “ Don’t go away off 
and leave me, daddy! ” “ Don’t go, don’t go! ” came the chil¬ 
dren’s plaintive wails, hoarse with fatigue and fright. 

Merryfield stealthily crept from the cellar’s outside door, 
hugging the wall of the cabin, moving toward the rear. As 
he reached the corner, and was about to make the turn to¬ 
ward the back, he drew his six-shooter and laid his carbine 
down in the grass. For the next step, he knew, would bring 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


267 

him into plain sight. If Drake offered any resistance, 
the ensuing action would be at short range or hand to 
hand. 

He rounded the corner. Drake was standing just outside 
the door, a rifle in his left hand, his right hand hidden in the 
pocket of his overcoat. In the doorway stood the wife, with 
the three little children crowding before her. It was the 
last moment. They were saying good-bye. 

Merryfield covered the bandit with his revolver. 

“ Put up your hands! You are under arrest,” he commanded. 

“ Who the hell are you! ” Drake flung back. As he spoke 
he thrust his rifle into the grasp of the woman and snatched 
his right hand from its concealment. In its grip glistened the 
barrel of a nickel-plated revolver. 

Merryfield could have easily shot him then and there— 
would have been amply warranted in doing so. But he had 
heard the children’s voices. Now he saw their innocent, ter¬ 
rified eyes. 

“ Poor—little—kiddies! ” he thought again. 

Drake stood six feet two inches high, and weighed some two 
hundred pounds, all brawn. Furthermore, he was desperate. 
Merryfield is merely of medium build. 

“ Nevertheless, I’ll take a chance,” he said to himself, re¬ 
turning his six-shooter to its holster. And just as the outlaw 
threw up his own weapon to fire, the Trooper, in a running 
jump, plunged into him with all fours, exactly as, when a boy, 
he had plunged off a springboard into the old mill-dam of a 
hot July afternoon. 

Too amazed even to pull his trigger, Drake gave backward 
a step into the doorway. Merryfield’s clutch toward his right 
hand missed the gun, fastening instead on the sleeve of his 
heavy coat. Swearing wildly while the woman and children 
screamed behind him, the bandit struggled to break the Troop¬ 
er’s hold—tore and pulled until the sleeve, where Merryfield 
held it, worked down over the gun in his own grip. So Merry- 


268 AMERICANS ALL 

field, twisting the sleeve, caught a lock-hold on hand and gun 
together. 

Drake, standing on the doorsill, had now some eight inches 
advantage of height. The door opened inward, from right to 
left. With a tremendous effort Drake forced his assailant to 
his knees, stepped back into the room, seized the door with his 
left hand and with the whole weight on his shoulder slammed 
it to, on the Trooper’s wrist. 

The pain was excruciating—but it did not break that lock- 
hold on the outlaw’s hand and gun. Shooting from his knees 
like a projectile, Merryfield flung his whole weight at the door. 
Big as Drake was, he could not hold it. It gave, and once 
more the two men hung at grips, this time within the room. 

Drake’s one purpose was to turn the muzzle of his im¬ 
prisoned revolver upon Merryfield. Merryfield, with his left 
still clinching that deadly hand caught in its sleeve, now 
grabbed the revolver in his own right hand, with a twist 
dragged it free, and flung it out of the door. 

But, as he dropped his right defense, taking both hands to 
the gun, the outlaw’s powerful left grip closed on Merryfield’s 
throat with a strangle-hold. 

With that great thumb closing his windpipe, with the world 
turning red and black, “ Guess I can’t put it over, after all! ” 
the Trooper said to himself. 

Reaching for his own revolver, he shoved the muzzle against 
the bandit’s breast. 

“ Damn you, shoot! ” cried the other, believing his end was 
come. 

But in that same instant Merryfield once more caught a 
glimpse of the fear-stricken faces of the babies, huddled to¬ 
gether beyond. 

“ Hallisey and Smith must be here soon,” he thought. “ I 
won’t shoot yet.” 

Again he dropped his revolver back into the holster, seiz¬ 
ing the wrist of the outlaw to release that terrible clamp on 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


269 

his throat. As he did so, Drake with a lightning twist, reached 
around to the Trooper’s belt and possessed himself of the gun. 
As he fired Merryfield had barely time and space to throw back 
his head. The flash blinded him—scorched his face hairless. 
The bullet grooved his body under the upflung arm still wrench¬ 
ing at the clutch that was shutting off his breath. 

Perhaps, with the shot, the outlaw insensibly somewhat re¬ 
laxed that choking arm. Merryfield tore loose. Half-blinded 
and gasping though he was, he flung himself again at his 
adversary and landed a blow in his face. Drake, giving 
backward, kicked over a row of peach jars, slipped on the 
slimy stream that poured over the bare floor, and dropped 
the gun. 

Pursuing his advantage, Merryfield delivered blow after blow 
on the outlaw’s face and body, backing him around the room, 
while both men slipped and slid, fell and recovered, on the jam- 
coated floor. The table crashed over, carrying with it the 
solitary lamp, whose flame died harmlessly, smothered in tepid 
mush. Now only the moonlight illuminated the scene. 

Drake was manoeuvring always to recover the gun. His 
hand touched the back of a chair. He picked the chair up, 
swung it high, and was about to smash it down on his ad¬ 
versary’s head when Merryfield seized it in the air. 

At this moment the woman, who had been crouching against 
the wall nursing the rifle that her husband had put into her 
charge, rushed forward clutching the barrel of the gun, swung 
it at full arm’s length as she would have swung an axe, and 
brought the stock down on the Trooper’s right hand. 

That vital hand dropped—fractured, done. But in the same 
second Drake gave a shriek of pain as a shot rang out and his 
own right arm fell powerless. 

In the door stood Hallisey, smoking revolver in hand, smil¬ 
ing grimly in the moonlight at the neatness of his own aim. 
What is the use of killing a man, when you can wing him 
as trigly as that? 


AMERICANS ALL 


270 

Private Smith, who had entered by the other door, was 
taking the rifle out of the woman’s grasp—partly because 
she had prodded him viciously with the muzzle. He examined 
the chambers. 

“ Do you know this thing is loaded? ” he asked her in a 
mild, detached voice. 

She returned his gaze with frank despair in her black 
eyes. 

“ Drake, do you surrender? ” asked Hallisey. 

“ Oh, I’ll give up. You’ve got me! ” groaned the outlaw. 
Then he turned on his wife with bitter anger. “ Didn’t I 
tell ye? ” he snarled. “ Didn’t I tell ye they’d get me if you 
kept me hangin’ around here? These ain’t no damn deputies. 
These is the State Police I ” 

“ An’ yet, if I’d known that gun was loaded,” said she, 
“ there’d been some less of ’em to-night! ” 

They dressed Israel’s arm in first-aid fashion. Then they 
started with their prisoner down the mountain-trail, at last 
resuming connection with their farmer friend. Not without 
misgivings, the latter consented to hitch up his “ double team ” 
and hurry the party to the nearest town where a doctor could 
be found. 

As the doctor dressed the bandit’s arm, Private Merryfield, 
whose broken right hand yet awaited care, observed to the 
groaning patient:— 

“ Do you know, you can be thankful to your little children 
that you have your life left.” 

“ To hell with you and the children and my life. I’d a 
hundred times rather you’d killed me than take what’s cornin’ 
now.” 

Then the three Troopers philosophically hunted up a night 
restaurant and gave their captive a bite of lunch. 

“ Now,” said Hallisey, as he paid the score, “ where’s the 
lock-up? ” 

The three officers, with Drake in tow, proceeded silently 


ISRAEL DRAKE 


271 


through the sleeping'streets. Not a ripple did their pass¬ 
ing occasion. Not even a dog aroused to take note of 
them. 

Duly they stood at the door of the custodian of the lock¬ 
up, ringing the bell—again and again ringing it. Eventually 
some one upstairs raised a window, looked out for an ap¬ 
preciable moment, quickly lowered the window and locked 
it. Nothing further occurred. Waiting for a reasonable in¬ 
terval the officers rang once more. No answer. Silence com¬ 
plete. 

Then they pounded on the door till the entire block heard. 

Here, there, up street and down, bedroom windows gently 
opened, then closed with finality more gentle yet. Silence. 
Not a voice. Not a foot on a stair. 

The officers looked at each other perplexed. Then, by 
chance, they looked at Drake. Drake, so lately black with 
suicidal gloom, was grinning! Grinning as a man does when 
the citadel of his heart is comforted. 

“You don’t understand, do ye!” chuckled he. “Well, 
I’ll tell ye: What do them folks see when they open their win¬ 
dows and look down here in the road? They see three hard- 
lookin’ fellers with guns in their hands, here in this bright 
moonlight. And they see somethin’ scarier to them than a hun¬ 
dred strangers with guns—they see ME! There ain’t a mother’s 
son of ’em that’ll budge downstairs while I’m here, not if 
you pound on their doors till the cows come home.” And he 
slapped his knee with his good hand and laughed in pure 
ecstasy—a laugh that caught all the little group and rocked 
it as with one mind. 

“ We don’t begrudge you that, do we boys? ” Hallisey con¬ 
ceded. “ Smith, you’re as respectable-looking as any of us. 
Hunt around and see if you can find a Constable that isn’t 
onto this thing. We’ll wait here for you.” 

Moving out of the zone of the late demonstration, Private 
Smith learned the whereabouts of the home of a Constable. 


272 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ What’s wanted? ” asked the Constable, responding like a 
normal burgher to Smith’s knock at his door. 

“ Officer of State Police,” answered Smith. “ I have a man 
under arrest and want to put him in the lock-up. Will you 
get me the keys? ” 

“ Sure. I’ll come right down and go along with you myself. 
Just give me a jiffy to get on my trousers and boots,” cried 
the Constable, clearly glad of a share in the adventure. 

In a moment the borough official was at the Trooper’s side, 
talking eagerly as they moved toward the place where the 
party waited. 

“ So, he’s a highwayman, is he? Good! and a burglar, too, 
and a cattle-thief! Good work! And you’ve got him right up 
the street, ready to jail! Well, I’ll be switched. Now, what 
might his name be? Israel Drake? Not Israel Drakel Oh, 
my God! ” 

The Constable had stopped in his tracks like a man struck 
paralytic. 

“ No, stranger,” he quavered. “ I reckon I—I—I won’t go 
no further with you just now. Here, I’ll give you the keys. 
You can use ’em yourself: These here’s for the doors. This 
bunch is for the cells. Good- night to you. I’ll be getting back 
home! ” 

By the first train next morning the Troopers, conveying their 
prisoner, left the village for the County Town. As they de¬ 
posited Drake in the safe-keeping of the County Jail and were 
about to depart, he seemed burdened with an impulse to speak, 
yet said nothing. Then, as the three officers were leaving the 
room, he leaned over and touched Merryfield on the shoulder. 

“Shake!” he growled, offering his unwounded hand. 

Merryfield “ shook ” cheerfully, with his own remaining 
sound member. 

“ I’m plumb sorry to see ye go, and that’s a fact,” growled 
the outlaw. “ Because—well, because you’re the only man that 
ever tried to arrest me.” 


KATHERINE MAYO 


Miss Katherine Mayo comes of Mayflower stock, but her 
birthplace was Ridgway, Pennsylvania. She was educated in 
private schools at Boston and Cambridge, Mass. Her earliest 
literary work to appear in print was a series of articles describ¬ 
ing travels in Norway, followed by another series on Colonial 
American topics, written for the New York Evening Post. 
Later, during a residence in Dutch Guiana, South America, 
she wrote for the Atlantic Monthly some interesting sketches 
of the natives of Surinam. After this came three years wholly 
devoted to historic research. The work, however, that first 
attracted wide attention was a history of the Pennsylvania 
State Police, published in 1917, under the title of Justice To 
All. 

This history gives the complete story of the famous Mounted 
Police of Pennsylvania, illustrated with a mass of accurate 
narrative and re-enforced with statistics. The occasion of its 
writing was a personal experience—the cold-blooded murder of 
Sam Howell, a fine young American workingman, a carpenter 
by trade, near Miss Mayo’s country home in New York. The 
circumstances of this murder could not have been more skil¬ 
fully arranged had they been specially designed to illustrate 
the weakness and folly of the ancient, out-grown engine to 
which most states in the Union, even yet, look for the enforce¬ 
ment of their laws in rural parts. Sam Howell, carrying the 
pay roll on pay-day morning, gave his life for his honor as 
gallantly as any soldier in any war. He was shot down, at 
arm’s length range, by four highway men, to whom, though 
himself unarmed, he would not surrender his trust. Sheriff, 
deputy sheriffs, constables, and some seventy-five fellow 
laborors available as sheriff’s posse spent hours within a few 


273 


AMERICANS ALL 


274 

hundred feet of the little wood in which the four murderers 
were known to be hiding, but no arrest was made and the 
murderers are today still at large. 

“ You will have forgotten all this in a month’s time,” said 
Howell’s fellow-workmen an hour after the tragedy, to Miss 
Mayo and her friend Miss Newell, owner of the estate, on 
the scene. “ Sam was only a laboring man, like ourselves. 
We, none of us, have any protection when we work in country 
parts.” 

The remark sounded bitter indeed. But investigation proved 
it, in principle, only too true. Sam Howell had not been the 
first, by many hundreds, to give his life because the State had 
no real means to make her law revered. And punishment for 
such crimes had been rare. Sam Howell, however, was not 
to be forgotten, neither was his sacrifice to be vain. From his 
blood, shed unseen, in the obscurity of a quiet country lane, 
was to spring a great movement, taking effect first in the state 
in which he died, and spreading through the Union. 

At that time Pennsylvania was the only state of all the forty- 
seven that had met its just obligations to protect all its people 
under its laws. Pennsylvania’s State Police had been for ten 
years a body of defenders of justice, “ without fear and with¬ 
out reproach ”. The honest people of the State had recorded 
its deeds in a long memory of noble service. But, never stoop¬ 
ing to advertise itself, never hesitating to incur the enmity of 
evildoers, it had had many traducers and no historian. There 
was nothing in print to which the people of other states might 
turn for knowledge of the accomplishment of the sister com¬ 
monwealth. 

So, in order that the facts might be conveniently available 
for every American citizen to study from “ A ” to “ Z ” and 
thus to decide intelligently for himself where he wanted his own 
state to stand, in the matter of fair and full protection to all 
people, Miss Mayo went to Pennsylvania and embarked on an 
exhaustive analysis of the workings of the Pennsylvania State 


KATHERINE MAYO 


275 

Police Force, viewed from the standpoint of all parts of the 
community. Ex-President Roosevelt wrote the preface for 
Justice To All, the book in which the fruits of this study were 
finally embodied, and, in the meantime, Miss Newell devoted 
all her energies to the development of an active and aggressive 
state-wide movement for a State Police. Justice To All, in 
this campaign was widely used as a source of authority on 
which to base the arguments for the case. And in 1917 came 
Sam Howell’s triumph, the passage of the Act creating the 
Department of New York State Police, now popularly called 
“ the State Troopers 

In the course of collecting the material for this book, Miss 
Mayo gathered a mass of facts much greater than one volume 
could properly contain. From this she later took fifteen adven¬ 
turous stories of actual service in the Pennsylvania Force, of 
which some, including “ Israel Drake ” appeared in the Satur¬ 
day Evening Post, while others came out simultaneously in the 
Atlantic Monthly and in the Outlook. All were later collected 
in a volume called The Standard Bearers, which met with 
a very cordial reception by readers and critics. 

During the latter part of the World War, Miss Mayo was 
in France investigating the war-work of the Y. M. C. A. Her 
experiences there furnished material for a book from which 
advance pages appeared in the Outlook in the form of separate 
stories, “ Billy’s Hut,” “ The Colonel’s Lady ” and others. The 
purpose of this book was to determine, as closely as possible, 
the real values, whatever those might be, of the work actually 
accomplished by the Overseas Y, and to lay the plain truth 
without bias or color, before the American people. 















IN THE PHILIPPINES 





When the Philippine Islands passed from the possession of 
Spain to that of the United States, there was a change in more 
than the flag. Spain had sent soldiers and tax-gatherers to 
the islands; Uncle Sam sent road-builders and school teachers. 
One of these school teachers was also a newspaper man; and 
in a book called Caybigan he gave a series of vivid pictures 
of how the coming generation of Filipinos are taking the first 
step towards Americanization. 


THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF 
ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 


BY 

James Hopper 

/—Face to Face with the Foe 

Returning to his own town after a morning spent in “ work¬ 
ing up ” the attendance of one of his far and recalcitrant bar¬ 
rio-schools, the Maestro of Balangilang was swaying with 
relaxed muscle and half-closed eyes to the allegretto trot of 
his little native pony, when he pulled up with a start, wide 
awake and all his senses on the alert. Through his som¬ 
nolence, at first in a low hum, but fast rising in a fiendish cres¬ 
cendo, there had come a buzzing sound, much like that of one 
of the saw-mills of his California forests, and now, as he sat 
in the saddle, erect and tense, the thing ripped the air in 
ragged tear, shrieked vibrating into his ear, and finished its 
course along his spine in delicious irritation. 

“ Oh, where am I? ” murmured the Maestro, blinking; but 
between blinks he caught the flashing green of the palay fields 
and knew that he was far from the saw-mills of the Golden 
State. So he raised his nose to heaven and there, afloat above 
him in the serene blue, was the explanation. It was a kite, 
a great locust-shaped kite, darting and swooping in the hot 
monsoon, and from it, dropping plumb, came the abominable 
clamor. 

“ Aha! ” exclaimed the Maestro, pointing accusingly at the 
thin line vaguely visible against the sky-line in a diagonal run¬ 
ning from the kite above him ahead to a point in the road. 
“ Aha! there’s something at the end of that; there’s Attendance 
at the end of that! ” 


279 


2 SO 


AMERICANS ALL 


With which significant remark he leaned forward in the 
saddle, bringing his switch down with a whizz behind him. 
The pony gave three rabbit leaps and then settled down to 
his drumming little trot. As they advanced the line overhead 
dropped gradually. Finally the Maestro had to swerve the 
horse aside to save his helmet. He pulled up to a walk, and a 
few yards further came to the spot where string met earth in 
the expected Attendance. 

The Attendance was sitting on the ground, his legs spread 
before him in an angle of forty-five degrees, each foot arched 
in a secure grip of a bunch of cogon grass. These legs were 
bare as far up as they went, and, in fact, no trace of cloth¬ 
ing was reached until the eye met the lower fringe of an in¬ 
describable undershirt modestly veiling the upper half of a 
rotund little paunch; an indescribable undershirt, truly, for 
observation could not reach the thing itself, but only the dirt 
incrusting it so that it hung together, rigid as a knight’s iron 
corslet, in spite of monstrous tears and rents. Between the 
teeth of the Attendance was a long, thick cheroot, wound about 
with hemp fiber, at which he pulled with rounded mouth. 
Hitched around his right wrist was the kite string, and between 
his legs a stick spindled with an extra hundred yards. At in¬ 
tervals he hauled hand-over-hand upon the taut line, and then 
the landscape vibrated to the buzz-saw song which had so com- 
pellingly recalled the Maestro to his eternal pursuit. 

As the shadow of the horse fell upon him, the Attendance 
brought his eyes down from their heavenly contemplation, and 
fixed them upon the rider. A tremor of dismay, mastered as 
soon as born, flitted over him; then, silently, with careful 
suppression of all signs of haste, he reached for a big stone 
with his little yellow paw, then for a stick lying farther off. 
Using the stone as a hammer, he drove the stick into the ground 
with deliberate stroke, wound the string around it with ten¬ 
der solicitude, and then, everything being secure, just as the 
Maestro was beginning his usual embarrassing question: 


ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 


281 


“ Why are you not at school, eh? ” 

He drew up his feet beneath him, straightened up like a 
jack-in-a-box, took a hop-skip-jump, and with a flourish of 
golden heels, flopped head-first into the roadside ditch’s rank 
luxuriance. 

“ The little devil! exclaimed the disconcerted Maestro. He 
dismounted and, leading his horse, walked up to the side of 
the ditch. It was full of the water of the last baguio. From 
the edge of the cane-field on the other side there cascaded down 
the bank a mad vegetation; it carpeted the sides, arched it¬ 
self above in a vault, and inside this recess the water was 
rotting, green-scummed; and a powerful fermentation filled 
the nostrils with hot fever-smells. In the center of the ditch 
the broad, flat head of a caribao emerged slightly above the 
water; the floating lilies made an incongruous wreath about 
the great horns and the beatifically-shut eyes, and the thick, 
humid nose exhaled ecstasy in shuddering ripplets over the 
calm surface. 

Filled with a vague sense of the ridiculous, the Maestro 
peered into the darkness. “ The little devil! ” he murmured. 
“ He’s somewhere in here; but how am I to get him, I’d like 
to know. Do you see him, eh, Mathusalem? ” he asked of the 
stolid beast soaking there in bliss. 

Whether in answer to this challenge or to some other 
irritant, the animal slowly opened one eye and ponderously 
let it fall shut again in what, to the heated imagination of the 
Maestro, seemed a patronizing wink. Its head slid quietly 
along the water; puffs of ooze rose from below and spread on 
the surface. Then, in the silence there rose a significant sound 
—a soft, repeated snapping of the tongue: 

“ Cluck, cluck.” 

“ Aha! ” shouted the Maestro triumphantly to his invisible 
audience. “I know where you are, you scamp; right behind 
the caribao; come out of there, pronto, dale-dale! ” 

But his enthusiasm was of short duration. To the com- 


282 


AMERICANS ALL 


manding tongue-click the caribao had stopped dead-still, and a 
silence heavy with defiance met the too-soon exultant cries. 
An insect in the foliage began a creaking call, and then all the 
creatures of humidity hidden there among this fermenting 
vegetation joined in mocking chorus. 

The Maestro felt a vague blush welling up from the inner¬ 
most recesses of his being. 

“ I’m going to get that kid,” he muttered darkly, “ if I 
have to wait till—the coming of Common Sense to the Manila 
office! By gum, he’s the Struggle for Attendance personified! ” 

He sat down on the bank and waited. This did not prove 
interesting. The animals of the ditch creaked on; the caribao 
bubbled up the water with his deep content; above, the 
abandoned kite went through strange acrobatics and wailed as 
if in pain. The Maestro dipped his hand into the water; it 
was lukewarm. “ No hope of a freeze-out,” he murmured 
pensively. 

Behind, the pony began to pull at the reins. 

“ Yes, little horse, I’m tired, too. Well,” he said apologeti¬ 
cally, “ I hate to get energetic, but there are circumstances 
which-” 

The end of his sentence was lost, for he had whisked out 
the big Colt’s dissuader of ladrones, that hung on his belt, and 
was firing. The six shots went off like a bunch of fire-crackers, 
but far from at random, for a regular circle boiled up around 
the dozing caribao. The disturbed animal snorted, and 
again a discreet “ cluck- cluck ” rose in the sudden, astounded 
silence. 

“ This,” said the Maestro, as he calmly introduced fresh 
cartridges into the chambers of his smoking weapon, “ is 
what might be called an application of western solutions to 
eastern difficulties.” 

Again he brought his revolver down, but he raised it with¬ 
out shooting and replaced it in its holster. From beneath the 
caribao’s rotund belly, below the surface, an indistinct form 



ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 


283 

shot out; cleaving the water like a polliwog it glided for the 
bank, and then a black, round head emerged at the feet of the 
Maestro. 

“ All right, bub; we’ll go to school now,” said the latter, 
nodding to the dripping figure as it rose before him. 

He lifted the sullen brownie and straddled him forward of 
the saddle, then proceeded to mount himself, when the Cap¬ 
ture began to display marked agitation. He squirmed and 
twisted, turned his head back and up, and finally a grunt es¬ 
caped him. 

“ El volador.” 

“The kite, to be sure; we mustn’t forget the kite,” acqui¬ 
esced the Maestro graciously. He pulled up the anchoring stick 
and laboriously, beneath the hostilely critical eye of the Cap¬ 
ture, he hauled in the line till the screeching, resisting flying- 
machine was brought to earth. Then he vaulted into the 
saddle. 

The double weight was a little too much for the pony; 
so it was at a dignified walk that the Maestro, his naked, drip¬ 
ping, muddy and still defiant prisoner a-straddle in front of 
him, the captured kite passed over his left arm like a knightly 
shield, made his triumphant entry into the pueblo. 

II—Heroism and Reverses 

When Maestro Pablo rode down Rizal-y-Washington Street 
to the schoolhouse with his oozing, dripping prize between his 
arms, the kite, like a knightly escutcheon against his left side, 
he found that in spite of his efforts at preserving a modest, 
self-deprecatory bearing, his spine would stiffen and his nose 
point upward in the unconscious manifestations of an internal 
feeling that there was in his attitude something picturesquely 
heroic. Not since walking down the California campus 
one morning after the big game won three minutes before 
blowing of the final whistle, by his fifty-yard run-in of a punt, 


AMERICANS ALL 


284 

had he been in that posture—at once pleasant and difficult— 
in which one’s vital concern is to wear an humility sufficiently 
convincing to obtain from friends forgiveness for the crime 
of being great. 

A series of incidents immediately following, however, made 
the thing quite easy. 

Upon bringing the new recruit into the schoolhouse, to the 
perfidiously expressed delight of the already incorporated, the 
Maestro called his native assistant to obtain the information 
necessary to a full matriculation. At the first question the 
inquisition came to a dead-lock. The boy did not know his 
name. 

“ In Spanish times,” the Assistant suggested modestly, “ we 
called them “ de los Reyes ” when the father was of the army, 
and “ de la Cruz ” when the father was of the church; but now, 
we can never know what it is.” 

The Maestro dashed to a solution. “ All right,” he said 
cheerily. “ I caught him; guess I can give him a name. Call 
him—Isidro de los Maestros.” 

And thus it was that the urchin went down on the school 
records, and on the records of life afterward. 

Now, well pleased with himself, the Maestro, as is the wont 
of men in such state, sought for further enjoyment. 

“ Ask him,” he said teasingly, pointing with his chin at 
the newly-baptized but still unregenerate little savage, “ why 
he came out of the ditch.” 

“ He says he was afraid that you would steal the 
kite,” answered the Assistant, after some linguistic spar¬ 
ring. 

“ Eh? ” ejaculated the surprised Maestro. 

And in his mind there framed a picture of himself riding 
along the road with a string between his fingers; and, follow¬ 
ing in the upper layers of air, a buzzing kite; and, down in 
the dust of the highway, an urchin trudging wistfully after 
the kite, drawn on irresistibly, in spite of his better judgment, 


ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 285 

cn and on, horrified but fascinated, up to the yawning school- 
door. 

It would have been the better way. “ I ought to go and 
soak my head,” murmured the Maestro pensively. 

This was check number one, but others came in quick suc¬ 
cession. 

For the morning after this incident the Maestro did not find 
Isidro among the weird, wild crowd gathered into the annex 
(a transformed sugar storehouse) by the last raid of the Muni¬ 
cipal Police. 

Neither was Isidro there the next day, nor the next. 
And it was not till a week had passed that the Maestro dis¬ 
covered, with an inward blush of shame, that his much- 
longed-for pupil was living in the little hut behind his own 
house. There would have been nothing shameful In the over¬ 
looking—there were seventeen other persons sharing the same 
abode—were it not that the nipa front of this human hive had 
been blown away by the last baguio, leaving an unobstructed 
view of the interior, if it might be called such. As it was, the 
Municipal Police was mobilized at the urgent behest of the 
Maestro. Its “ cabo,” flanked by two privates armed with 
old German needle-guns, besieged the home, and after an in¬ 
teresting game of hide-and-go-seek, Isidro was finally caught 
by one arm and one ear, and ceremoniously marched to school. 
And there the Maestro asked him why he had not been at¬ 
tending. 

“No hay pantalones ”—there are no pants—Isidro an¬ 
swered, dropping his eyes modestly to the ground. 

This was check number two, and unmistakably so, for 
was it not a fact that a civil commission, overzealous in its 
civilizing ardor, had passed a law commanding that every one 
should wear, when in public, “ at least one garment, preferably 
trousers? ” 

Following this, and an unsuccessful plea upon the town 
tailor who was on a three weeks’ vacation on account of the 


286 


AMERICANS ALL 


death of a fourth cousin, the Maestro shut himself up a whole 
day with Isidro in his little nipa house; and behind the closely- 
shut shutters engaged in some mysterious toil. When they 
emerged again the next morning, Isidro wended his way to the 
school at the end of the Maestro’s arm, trousered! 

The trousers, it must be said, had a certain cachet of dis¬ 
tinction. They were made of calico-print, with a design of little 
black skulls sprinkled over a yellow background. Some parts 
hung flat and limp as if upon a scarecrow; others pulsed, like 
a fire-hose in action, with the pressure of flesh compressed be¬ 
neath, while at other points they bulged pneumatically in 
little foot-balls. The right leg dropped to the ankle; the left 
stopped discouraged, a few inches below the knee. The seams 
looked like the putty mountain chains of the geography class. 
As the Maestro strode along he threw rapid glances at his handi¬ 
work, and it was plain that the emotions that moved him were 
somewhat mixed in character. His face showed traces of a 
puzzled diffidence, as that of a man who has come in sack- 
coat to a full-dress function; but after all it was satisfaction 
that predominated, for after this heroic effort he had decided 
that Victory had at last perched upon his banners. 

And it really looked so for a time. Isidro stayed at school 
at least during that first day of his trousered life. For when 
the Maestro, later in the forenoon paid a visit to the annex, 
he found the Assistant in charge standing disconcerted before 
the urchin who, with eyes indignant and hair perpendicular 
upon the top of his head, was evidently holding to his side of 
the argument with his customary energy. 

Isidro was trouserless. Sitting rigid upon his bench, hold¬ 
ing on with both hands as if in fear of being removed, he dan¬ 
gled naked legs to the sight of who might look. 

“ Que barbaridad! ” murmered the Assistant in limp de¬ 
jection. 

But Isidro threw at him a look of black hatred. This 
became a tense, silent plea for justice as it moved up for a 


ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 287 

moment to the Maestro’s face, and then it settled back upon 
its first object in frigid accusation. 

“ Where are your trousers, Isidro? ” asked the Maestro. 

Isidro relaxed his convulsive grasp of the bench with one 
hand, canted himself slightly to one side just long enough to 
give an instantaneous view of the trousers, neatly folded and 
spread between what he was sitting with and what he was 
sitting on, then swung back with the suddenness of a kodak- 
shutter, seized his seat with new determination, and looked 
eloquent justification at the Maestro. 

“ Why will you not wear them? ” asked the latter. 

“ He says he will not get them dirty,” said the Assistant, in¬ 
terpreting the answer. 

“ Tell him when they are dirty he can go down to the 
river and wash them,” said the Maestro. 

Isidro pondered over the suggestion for two silent minutes. 
The prospect of a day spent splashing in the lukewarm waters 
of the Hog he finally put down as not at all detestable, and 
getting up to his feet: 

“ I will put them on,” he said gravely. 

Which he did on the moment, with an absence of hesitation 
as to which was front and which was back, very flattering to 
the Maestro. 

That Isidro persevered during the next week, the Maestro 
also came to know. For now regularly every evening as he 
smoked and lounged upon his long, cane chair, trying to per¬ 
suade his tired body against all laws of physics to give up a 
little of its heat to a circumambient atmosphere of temperature 
equally enthusiastic; as he watched among the rafters of the 
roof the snakes swallowing the rats, the rats devouring the 
lizards, the lizards snapping up the spiders, the spiders snar¬ 
ing the flies in eloquent representation of the life struggle, his 
studied passiveness would be broken by strange sounds from the 
dilapidated hut at the back of his house. A voice, imitative 
of that of the Third Assistant who taught the annex, hurled 


288 


AMERICANS ALL 


forth questions, which were immediately answered by another 
voice, curiously like that of Isidro. 

Fiercely: “ Du yu ssee dde hhett? ” 

Breathlessly: “ Yiss I ssee dde hhett.” 

Ferociously: “ Show me dde hhett.” 

Eagerly: “ Here are dde hhett.” 

Thunderously: “ Gif me dde hhett.” 

Exultantly: “ I gif yu dde hhett.” 

Then the Maestro would step to the window and look into 
the hut from which came this Socratic dialogue. And on 
this wall-less platform which looked much like a primitive stage, 
a singular action was unrolling itself in the smoky glimmer of 
a two-cent lamp. The Third Assistant was not there at all; 
but Isidro was the Third Assistant. And the pupil was not 
Isidro, but the witless old man who was one of the many 
sharers of the abode. In the voice of the Third Assistant, 
Isidro was hurling out the tremendous questions; and, as the 
old gentleman, who represented Isidro, opened his mouth only 
to drule betel-juice, it was Isidro who, in Isidro’s voice, an¬ 
swered the questions. In his role as Third Assistant he stood 
with legs akimbo before the pupil, a bamboo twig in his hand; 
as Isidro the pupil, he plumped down quickly upon the bench 
before responding. The sole function of the senile old man 
seemed that of representing the pupil while the question was 
being asked, and receiving, in that capacity, a sharp cut 
across the nose from Isidro-the-Third-Assistant’s switch, at 
which he chuckled to himself in silent glee and druled ad 
libitum. 

For several nights this performance went on with gradual 
increase of vocabulary in teacher and pupil. But when it had 
reached the “ Do you see the apple-tree? ” stage, it ceased to 
advance, marked time for a while, and then slowly but steadily 
began sliding back into primitive beginnings. This engendered 
in the Maestro a suspicion which became certainty when Isidro 
entered the schoolhouse one morning just before recess, between 


ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 289 

two policemen at port arms. A rapid scrutiny of the roll- 
book showed that he had been absent a whole week. 

“ I was at the river cleaning my trousers/ 7 answered Isidro 
when put face to face with this curious fact. 

The Maestro suggested that the precious pantaloons which, 
by the way, had been mysteriously embellished by a red 
stripe down the right leg and a green stripe down the left leg, 
could be cleaned in less than a week, and that Saturday and 
Sunday were days specially set aside in the Catechismo of the 
Americanos for such little family duties. 

Isidro understood, and the nightly rehearsals soon reached 
the stage of: 

“ How menny hhetts hev yu? 77 
I hev ten hhetts. 77 

Then came another arrest of development and another 
decline, at the end of which Isidro again making his appear¬ 
ance flanked by two German needle-guns, caused a blush of 
remorse to suffuse the Maestro by explaining with frigid gravity 
that his mother had given birth to a little pickaninny-brother 
and that, of course, he had had to help. 

But significant events in the family did not stop there. 
After birth, death stepped in for its due. Isidro 7 s relatives 
began to drop off in rapid sequence—each demise demanding 
three days of meditation in retirement—till at last the Maestro, 
who had had the excellent idea of keeping upon paper a record 
of these unfortunate occurrences, was looking with stupor upon 
a list showing that Isidro had lost, within three weeks, two 
aunts, three grandfathers, and five grandmothers—which, con¬ 
sidering that an actual count proved the house of bereavement 
still able to boast of seventeen occupants, was plainly an ex¬ 
aggeration. 

Following a long sermon from the Maestro in which he 
sought to explain to Isidro that he must always tell the truth 
for sundry philosophical reasons—a statement which the First 
Assistant tactfully smoothed to something within range of 


290 


AMERICANS ALL 


credulity by translating it that one must not lie to Americanos , 
because Americanos do not like it—there came a period of 
serenity. 

Ill—The Triumph 

There came to the Maestro days of peace and joy. Isidro 
was coming to school; Isidro was learning English. Isidro was 
steady, Isidro was docile, Isidro was positively so angelic that 
there was something uncanny about the situation. And with 
Isidro, other little savages were being pruned into the school¬ 
going stage of civilization. Helped by the police, they were 
pouring in from barrio and hacienda; the attendance was go¬ 
ing up by leaps and bounds, till at last a circulative report 
showed that Balangilang had passed the odious Cabancalan with 
its less strenuous school-man, and left it in the ruck by a full 
hundred. The Maestro was triumphant; his chest had gained 
two inches in expansion. When he met Isidro at recess, playing 
cibay, he murmured softly: “You little devil; you were At¬ 
tendance personified, and I’ve got you now.” At which Isidro, 
pausing in the act of throwing a shell with the top of his head 
at another shell on the ground, looked up beneath long lashes 
in a smile absolutely seraphic. 

In the evening, the Maestro, his heart sweet with content, 
stood at the window. These were moonlight nights; in the 
grassy lanes the young girls played graceful Spanish games, 
winding like garlands to a gentle song; from the shadows of 
the huts came the tinkle-tinkle of serenading guitars and yearn¬ 
ing notes of violins wailing despairing love. And Isidro, seated 
on the bamboo ladder of his house, went through an indepen¬ 
dent performance. He sang “ Good-night, Ladies,” the last 
song given to the school, sang it in soft falsetto, with lan¬ 
guorous drawls, and neper-ending organ points, over and over 
again, till it changed character gradually, dropping into a 
wailing minor, an endless croon full of obscure melancholy of 
a race that dies. 


ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 


291 


il Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo nigh-igh- 
igh loidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies-ies,” 
he repeated and repeated, over and over again, till the Maes¬ 
tro’s soul tumbled down and down abysses of maudlin tender¬ 
ness, and Isidro’s chin fell upon his chest in a last drawling, 
sleepy note. At which he shook himself together and began 
the next exercise, a recitation, all of one piece from first to 
last syllable, in one high, monotonous note, like a mechanical 
doll saying “ papa-mama.” 

“ Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre-oh-mudder-she 
look-like-a-lom-in-de-ayre -lost-night-she-was-smalleyre- on-joos 
like-a-bow-boot-now-she-ees-biggerr-on-rrraon-like-an-O.” 

Then a big gulp of air and again: 

“ Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre,-” etc. 

An hour of this, and he skipped from the lyric to the patrio¬ 
tic, and then it was: 

“ I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton, 
I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow, 
I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg, 
Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo! ” 

By this time the Maestro was ready to go to bed, and long 
in the torpor of the tropic night there came to him, above the 
hum of the mosquitoes fighting at the net, the soft, wailing 
croon of Isidro, back at his “ Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies- 
ies-ies.” 

These were days of ease and beauty to the Maestro, and he 
enjoyed them the more when a new problem came to give 
action to his resourceful brain. 

The thing was this: For three days there had not been 
one funeral in Balangilang. 

In other climes, in other towns, this might have been a 
source of congratulation, perhaps, but not in Balangilang. 
There were rumors of cholera in the towns to the north, and 
the Maestro, as president of the Board of Health, was on the 
watch for it. Five deaths a day, experience had taught him, 


AMERICANS ALL 


292 

was the healthy average for the town; and this sudden ces¬ 
sation of public burials—he could not belive that dying had 
stopped—was something to make him suspicious. 

It was over this puzzling situation that he was pondering 
at the morning recess, when his attention was taken from it 
by a singular scene. 

The “ batas ” of the school were flocking and pushing and 
jolting at the door of the basement which served as stable for 
the municipal caribao. Elbowing his way to the spot, the Maes¬ 
tro found Isidro at the entrance, gravely taking up an ad¬ 
mission of five shells from those who would enter. Business 
seemed to be brisk; Isidro had already a big bandana hand¬ 
kerchief bulging with the receipts which were now overflowing 
into a great tao hat, obligingly loaned him by one of his ad¬ 
mirers, as one by one, those lucky enough to have the price 
filed in, feverish curiosity upon their faces. 

The Maestro thought that it might be well to go in also, 
which he did without paying admission. The disappointed 
gate-keeper followed him. The Maestro found himself before 
a little pink-and-blue tissue-paper box, frilled with paper ro¬ 
settes. 

“ What have you in there? ” asked the Maestro. 

“ My brother,” answered Isidro sweetly. 

He cast his eyes to the ground and watched his big toe 
drawing vague figures in the earth, then appealing to the First 
Assistant who was present by this time, he added in the tone 
of virtue which will be modest: 

“ Maestro Pablo does not like it when I do not come to 
school on account of a funeral, so I brought him (pointing 
to the little box) with me.” 

“Well, I’ll be-” was the only comment the Maestro 

found adequate at the moment. 

“ It is my little pickanimty-brother,” went on Isidro, becom¬ 
ing alive to the fact that he was a center of interest, “ and 
he died last night of the great sickness.” 



ISIDRO DE LOS MAESTROS 


293 

“ The great what? ” ejaculated the Maestro who had caught 
a few words. 

“ The great sickness,” explained the Assistant. “ That is 
the name by which these ignorant people call the cholera.” 

For the next two hours the Maestro was very busy. 

Firstly he gathered the “ batas ” who had been rich enough 
to attend Isidro’s little show and locked them up—with the 
impresario himself—in the little town-jail close by. Then, 
after a vivid exhortation upon the beauties of boiling water 
and reporting disease, he dismissed the school for an indefinite 
period. After which, impressing the two town prisoners, now 
temporarily out of home, he shouldered Isidro’s pretty box, 
tramped to the cemetery and directed the digging of a grave 
six feet deep. When the earth had been scraped back upon the 
lonely little object, he returned to town and transferred the 
awe-stricken playgoers to his own house, where a strenuous 
performance took place. 

Tolio, his boy, built a most tremendous fire outside and set 
upon it all the pots and pans and caldrons and cans of his 
kitchen arsenal, filled with water. When these began to gurgle 
and steam, the Maestro set himself to stripping the horrified 
bunch in his room; one by one he threw the garments out of the 
window to Tolio who, catching them, stuffed them into the re¬ 
ceptacles, poking down their bulging protest with a big stick. 
Then the Maestro mixed an awful brew in an old oil-can, and 
taking the brush which was commonly used to sleek up his 
little pony, he dipped it generously into the pungent stuff and 
began an energetic scrubbing of his now absolutely panic- 
stricken wards. When he had done this to his satisfaction 
and thoroughly to their discontent, he let them put on their still 
steaming garments and they slid out of the house, aseptic 
as hospitals. 

Isidro he kept longer. He lingered over him with loving and 
strenuous care, and after he had him externally clean, pro- 


AMERICANS ALL 


294 

ceeded to dose him internally from a little red bottle. Isidro 
took everything—the terrific scrubbing, the exaggerated dosing, 
the ruinous treatment of his pantaloons—with wonder-eyed 
serenity. 

When all this was finished the Maestro took the urchin into 
the dining-room and, seating him on his best bamboo chair, he 
courteously offered him a fine, dark perfecto. 

The next instant he was suffused with the light of a new 
revelation. For, stretching out his hard little claw to receive the 
gift, the little man had shot at him a glance so mild, so 
wistful, so brown-eyed, filled with such mixed admiration, 
trust, and appeal, that a queer softness had risen in the Maes¬ 
tro from somewhere down in the regions of his heel, up and up, 
quietly, like the mercury in the thermometer, till it had flowed 
through his whole body and stood still, its high-water mark 
a little lump in his throat. 

“ Why, Lord bless us-ones, Isidro,” said the Maestro quietly. 
“ We’re only a child after all; mere baby, my man. And don’t 
we like to go to school? ” 

“ Senor Pablo,” asked the boy, looking up softly into the 
Maestro’s still perspiring visage, “ Senor Pablo, is it true that 
there will be no school because of the great sickness? ” 

“ Yes, it is true,” answered the Maestro. “ No school for 
a long, long time.” 

Then Isidro’s mouth began to twitch queerly, and suddenly 
throwing himself full-length upon the floor, he hurled out from 
somewhere within him a long, tremulous wail. 


JAMES MERLE HOPPER 


James Merle Hopper was born in Paris, France. His father 
was American, his mother French; their son James was born 
July 23, 1876. In 1887 his parents came to America, and 
settled in California. James Hopper attended the University 
of California, graduating in 1898. He is still remembered 
there as one of the grittiest football players who ever played 
on the ’Varsity team. Then came a course in the law school of 
that university, and admission to the California bar in 1900. 
All this reads like the biography of a lawyer: so did the early 
life of James Russell Lowell, and of Oliver Wendell Holmes: 
they were all admitted to the bar, but they did not become 
lawyers. James Hopper had done some newspaper work for 
San Francisco papers while he was in law school, and the love 
of writing had taken hold of him. In the meantime he had 
married Miss Mattie E. Leonard, and as literature did not yet 
provide a means of support, he became an instructor in French 
at the University o. California. 

With the close of the Spanish-American War came the call 
for thousands of Americans to go to the Philippines as school¬ 
masters. This appealed to him, and he spent the years 1902- 
03 in the work that Kipling thus describes in “ The White 
Man’s Burden ”: 

To wait in heavy harness 
On fluttered folk and wild— 

Your new-caught sullen peoples, 

Half devil and half child. 

His experiences here furnished the material for a group of 
short stories dealing picturesquely with the Filipinos in their 
first contact with American civilization. These were published 


295 


296 AMERICANS ALL 

in McClure’s, and afterwards collected in book form under the 
title Caybigan. 

In 1903 James Hopper returned to the United States, and 
for a time was on the editorial staff of McClure’s. Later in 
collaboration with Fred R. Bechdolt he wrote a remarkable 
book, entitled “ poop This is the number of a convict in an 
American prison, and the book exposes the system of spying, 
of treachery, of betrayal, that a convict must identify himself 
with in order to become a “ trusty.” His next book was a 
college story, The Freshman. This was followed by a volume 
of short stories, What Happened in the Night. These are 
stories of child life, but intended for older readers; they are 
very successful in reproducing the imaginative world in which 
children live. In 1915 and 1916 he acted as a war correspon¬ 
dent for Collier’s, first with the American troops in Mexico 
in pursuit of Villa, and later in France. His home is at Car¬ 
mel, California. 


THEY WHO BRING DREAMS 
TO AMERICA 


“ No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave 
ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like 
the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a 
pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night.“ The Citi¬ 
zen ” is a story of a brave man who followed his dream over 
land and sea, until it brought him to America, a fortunate 
event for him and for us. 


THE CITIZEN 


BY 

James Francis Dwyer 

The President of the United States was speaking. His au¬ 
dience comprised two thousand foreign-born men who had just 
been admitted to citizenship. They listened intently, their 
faces, aglow with the light of a new-born patriotism, upturned 
to the calm, intellectual face of the first citizen of the country 
they now claimed as their own. 

Here and there among the newly-made citizens were wives 
and children. The women were proud of their men. They 
looked at them from time to time, their faces showing pride and 
awe. 

One little woman, sitting immediately in front of the Presi¬ 
dent, held the hand of a big, muscular man and stroked it 
softly. The big man was looking at the speaker with great 
blue eyes that were the eyes of a dreamer. 

The President’s words came clear and distinct: 

You were drawn across the ocean by some beckoning finger 
oj hope, by some belief, by some vision of a new kind of jus¬ 
tice, by some expectation of a better kind of life. You dreamed 
dreams of this country, and 1 hope you brought the dreams 
with you. A man enriches the country to which he brings 
dreams, and you who have brought them have enriched America. 

The big man made a curious choking noise and his wife 
breathed a soft “ Hush! ” The giant was strangely affected. 

The President continued: 

No doubt you have been disappointed in some of us, but re¬ 
member this, if we have grown at all poor in the ideal, you 

299 


AMERICANS ALL 


300 

brought some oj it with you. A man does not go out to seek 
the thing that is not in him. A man does not hope for the 
thing that he does not believe in, and if some of us have for¬ 
gotten what America believed in, you at any rate imported in 
your own hearts a renewal of the belief. Each of you, I am 
sure, brought a dream, a glorious, shining dream, a dream 
worth more than gold or silver, and that is the reason that I, 
for one, make you welcome. 

The big man’s eyes were fixed. His wife shook him gently, 
but he did not heed her. He was looking through the presi¬ 
dential rostrum, through the big buildings behind it, looking 
out over leagues of space to a snow-swept village that huddled 
on an island in the Beresina, the swift-flowing tributary of 
the mighty Dnieper, an island that looked like a black bone 
stuck tight in the maw of the stream. 

It was in the little village on the Beresina that the Dream 
came to Ivan Berloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge. 

The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams come in 
the spring, and the Spring Maiden who brought Big Ivan’s 
Dream was more than ordinarily beautiful. She swept up the 
Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies of vivid green. Her feet 
touched the snow-hardened ground, and armies of little white 
and blue flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezes es¬ 
corted her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of the far- 
off places from which they came, places far to the southward, 
and more distant towns beyond the Black Sea whose people 
were not under the sway of the Great Czar. 

The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under Prince Men¬ 
shikov at Alma fifty-five years before, hobbled out to see the 
sunbeams eat up the snow hummocks that hid in the shady 
places, and he told his son it was the most wonderful spring 
he had ever seen. 

“ The little breezes are hot and sweet,” he said, sniffing 
hungrily with his face turned toward the south. “ I know 
them, Ivan! I know them! They have the spice odor that I 


THE CITIZEN 


301 


sniffed on the winds that came to us when we lay in the 
trenches at Balaklava. Praise God for the warmth! ” 

And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he plowed. 
It was a wonder dream. It sprang into his brain as he walked 
behind the plow, and for a few minutes he quivered as the big 
bridge quivers when the Beresina sends her ice squadrons to 
hammer the arches. It made his heart pound mightily, and his 
lips and throat became very dry. 

Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried to dis¬ 
cover what had brought the Dream. Where had it come from? 
Why had it clutched him so suddenly? Was he the only man 
in the village to whom it had come? 

Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. He 
thrust his great hands into the sunbeams. He reached down 
and plucked one of a bunch of white flowers that had sprung 
up overnight. The Dream was born of the breezes and the 
sunshine and the spring flowers. It came from them and it 
had sprung into his mind because he was young and strong. 
He knew! It couldn’t come to his father or Donkov, the 
tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and weak, 
and Ivan’s dream was one that called for youth and 
strength. 

“ Ay, for youth and strength,” he muttered as he gripped 
the plow. “And I have it! ” 

That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his wife, Anna, 
a little woman, who had a sweet face and a wealth of fair 
hair. 

“ Wife, we are going away from here,” he said. 

“ Where are we going, Ivan? ” she asked. 

“ Where do you think, Anna? ” he said, looking down at 
her as she stood by his side. 

“ To Bobruisk,” she murmured. 

“ No.” 

“ Farther? ” 

“ Ay, a long way farther.” 


AMERICANS ALL 


302 

Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine 
versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther. 

“ We—we are not going to Minsk? ” she cried. 

“ Aye, and beyond Minsk! ” 

“ Ivan, tell me! ” she gasped. “ Tell me where we are 
going! ” 

“ We are going to America.” 

“ To America? ” 

“ Yes, to America! ” 

Big Ivan of the Bridge lifted up his voice when he cried out 
the words “ To America,” and then a sudden fear sprang upon 
him as those words dashed through the little window out into 
the darkness of the village street. Was he mad? America was 
8,000 versts away! It was far across the ocean, a place that 
was only a name to him, a place where he knew no one. He 
wondered in the strange little silence that followed his words 
if the crippled son of Poborino, the smith, had heard him. The 
cripple would jeer at him if the night wind had carried the 
words to his ear. 

Anna remained staring at her big husband for a few minutes, 
then she sat down quietly at his side. There was a strange 
look in his big blue eyes, the look of a man to whom has come 
a vision, the look which came into the eyes of those shepherds 
of Judea long, long ago. 

“ What is it, Ivan? ” she murmured softly, patting his big 
hand. “ Tell me.” 

And Big Ivan of the Bridge, slow of tongue, told of the 
Dream. To no one else would he have told it. Anna under¬ 
stood. She had a way of patting his hands and saying soft 
things when his tongue could not find words to express his 
thoughts. 

Ivan told how the Dream had come to him as he plowed. 
He told her how it had sprung upon him, a wonderful dream 
born of the soft breezes, of the sunshine, of the sweet smell 
of the upturned sod and of his own strength. “ It wouldn’t 


THE CITIZEN 


303 


come to weak men,” he said, baring an arm that showed great 
snaky muscles rippling beneath the clear skin. “ It is a dream 
that comes only to those who are strong and those who want— 
who want something that they haven’t got.” Then in a lower 
voice he said: “ What is it that we want, Anna? ” 

The little wife looked out into the darkness with fear-filled 
eyes. There were spies even there in that little village on the 
Beresina, and it was dangerous to say words that might be 
construed into a reflection on the Government. But she an¬ 
swered Ivan. She stooped and whispered one word into his 
ear, and he slapped his thigh with his big hand. 

“ Ay,” he cried. “ That is what we want! You and I and 
millions like us want it, and over there, Anna, over there we 
will get it. It is the country where a muzhik is as good as 
a prince of the blood! ” 

Anna stood up, took a small earthenware jar from a side 
shelf, dusted it carefully and placed it upon the mantel. From 
a knotted cloth about her neck she took a ruble and dropped 
the coin into the jar. Big Ivan looked at her curiously. 

“ It is to make legs for your Dream,” she explained. “ It is 
many versts to America, and one rides on rubles.” 

“ You are a good wife,” he said. “ I was afraid that you 
might laugh at me.” 

“ It is a great dream,” she murmured. “ Come, we will go 
to sleep.” 

The Dream maddened Ivan during the days that followed. 
It pounded within his brain as he followed the plow. It bred 
a discontent that made him hate the little village, the swift¬ 
flowing Beresina and the gray stretches that ran toward Mo¬ 
gilev. He wanted to be moving, but Anna had said that one 
rode on rubles, and rubles were hard to find. 

And in some mysterious way the village became aware of the 
secret. Donkov, the tailor, discovered it. Donkov lived in 
one-half of the cottage occupied by Ivan and Anna, and Don¬ 
kov had long ears. The tailor spread the news, and Poborino, 


3 04 AMERICANS ALL 

the smith, and Yanansk, the baker, would jeer at Ivan as he 
passed. 

“ When are you going to America? ” they would ask. 

“ Soon,” Ivan would answer. 

“Take us with you! ” they would cry in chorus. 

“ It is no place for cowards,” Ivan would answer. “ It 
is a long way, and only brave men can make the journey.” 

“ Are you brave? ” the baker screamed one day as he 
went by. 

“ I am brave enough to want liberty! ” cried Ivan angrily. 
“ I am brave enough to want-” 

“Be careful! Be careful!” interrupted the smith. “A 
long tongue has given many a man a train journey that he never 
expected.” 

That night Ivan and Anna counted the rubles in the earthen¬ 
ware pot. The giant looked down at his wife with a gloomy 
face, but she smiled and patted his hand. 

“ It is slow work,” he said. 

“ We must be patient,” she answered. “ You have the 
Dream.” 

“ Ay,” he said. “ I have the Dream.” 

Through the hot, languorous summertime the Dream grew 
within the brain of Big Ivan. He saw visions in the smoky 
haze that hung above the Beresina. At times he would stand, 
hoe in hand, and look toward the west, the wonderful west 
into which the sun slipped down each evening like a coin 
dropped from the fingers of the dying day. 

Autumn came, and the fretful whining winds that came down 
from the north chilled the Dream. The winds whispered of 
the coming of the Snow King, and the river grumbled as it 
listened. Big Ivan kept out of the way of Poborino, the 
smith, and Yanansk, the baker. The Dream was still with 
him, but autumn is a bad time for dreams. 

Winter came, and the Dream weakened. It was only the 
earthenware pot that kept it alive, the pot into which the 



THE CITIZEN 


305 

industrious Anna put every coin that could be spared. Often 
Big Ivan would stare at the pot as he sat beside the stove. 
The pot was the cord which kept the Dream alive. 

“ You are a good woman, Anna,” Ivan would say again 
and again. “ It was you who thought of saving the 
rubles.” 

“ But it was you who dreamed,” she would answer. “ Wait 
for the spring, husband mine. Wait.” 

It was strange how the spring came to the Beresina that year. 
It sprang upon the flanks of winter before the Ice King had 
given the order to retreat into the fastnesses of the north. It 
swept up the river escorted by a million little breezes, and 
housewives opened their windows and peered out with surprise 
upon their faces. A wonderful guest had come to them and 
found them unprepared. 

Big Ivan of the Bridge was fixing a fence in the meadow on 
the morning the Spring Maiden reached the village. For a 
little while he was not aware of her arrival. His mind was 
upon his work, but suddenly he discovered that he was hot, 
and he took off his overcoat. He turned to hang the coat upon 
a bush, then he sniffed the air, and a puzzled look came upon 
his face. He sniffed again, hurriedly, hungrily. He drew in 
great breaths of it, and his eyes shone with a strange light. It 
was wonderful air. It brought life to the Dream. It rose 
up within him, ten times more lusty than on the day it was 
born, and his limbs trembled as he drew in the hot, scented 
breezes that breed the Wanderlust and shorten the long trails 
of the world. 

Big Ivan clutched his coat and ran to the little cottage. He 
burst through the door, startling Anna, who was busy with her 
housework. 

“ The Spring! ” he cried. “ The Spring! ” 

He took her arm and dragged her to the door. Standing to¬ 
gether they sniffed the sweet breezes. In silence they listened 
to the song of the river. The Beresina had changed from a 


AMERICANS ALL 


306 

whining, fretful tune into a lilting, sweet song that would set 
the legs of lovers dancing. Anna pointed to a green bud on a 
bush beside the door. 

“ It came this minute,” she murmured. 

“ Yes,” said Ivan. “ The little fairies brought it there to 
show us that spring has come to stay.” 

Together they turned and walked to the mantel. Big Ivan 
took up the earthenware pot, carried it to the table, and spilled 
its contents upon the well-scrubbed boards. He counted while 
Anna stood beside him, her fingers clutching his coarse blouse. 
It was a slow business, because Ivan’s big blunt fingers were 
not used to such work, but it was over at last. He stacked 
the coins into neat piles, then he straightened himself and 
turned to the woman at his side. 

“ It is enough,” he said quietly. “ We will go at once. If 
it was not enough, we would have to go because the Dream 
is upon me and I hate this place.” 

“ As you say,” murmured Anna. “ The wife of Littin, the 
butcher, will buy our chairs and our bed. I spoke to her 
yesterday.” 

Poborino, the smith; his crippled son; Yanansk, the baker; 
Dankov, the tailor, and a score of others were out upon the 
village street on the morning that Big Ivan and Anna set out. 
They were inclined to jeer at Ivan, but something upon the 
face of the giant made them afraid. Hand in hand the big man 
and his wife walked down the street, their faces turned toward 
Bobruisk, Ivan balancing upon his head a heavy trunk that 
no other man in the village could have lifted. 

At the end of the street a stripling with bright eyes and 
yellow curls clutched the hand of Ivan and looked into his 
face. 

“ I know what is sending you,” he cried. 

“ Ay, you know,” said Ivan, looking into the eyes of the 
other. 

“ It came to me yesterday,” murmured the stripling. “ I 


THE CITIZEN 


307 

got it from the breezes. They are free, so are the birds and 
the little clouds and the river. I wish I could go.” 

“ Keep your dream,” said Ivan softly. “ Nurse it, for it is 
the dream of a man.” 

Anna, who was crying softly, touched the blouse of the boy. 
“ At the back of our cottage, near the bush that bears the red 
berries, a pot is buried,” she said. “ Dig it up and take it 
home with you and when you have a kopeck drop it in. It is 
a good pot.” 

The stripling understood. He stooped and kissed the hand 
of Anna, and Big Ivan patted him upon the back. They were 
brother dreamers and they understood each other. 

Boris Lugan has sung the song of the versts that eat up one’s 
courage as well as the leather of one’s shoes. 

“ Versts ! Versts ! Scores and scores of them! 

Versts ! Versts! A million or more of them ! 

Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it, 

Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it.” 

Big Ivan and Anna faced the long versts to Bobruisk, but 
they were not afraid of the dust devils. They had the Dream. 
It made their hearts light and took the weary feeling from their 
feet. They were on their way. America was a long, long 
journey, but they had started, and every verst they covered 
lessened the number that lay between them and the Promised 
Land. 

“ I am glad the boy spoke to us,” said Anna. 

“ And I am glad,” said Ivan. “ Some day he will come and 
eat with us in America.” 

They came to Bobruisk. Holding hands, they walked into 
it late one afternoon. They were eighty-nine versts from the 
little village on the Beresina, but they were not afraid. The 
Dream spoke to Ivan, and his big hand held the hand of 
Anna. The railway ran through Bobruisk, and that evening 
they stood and looked at the shining rails that went out in 


3 o8 AMERICANS ALL 

the moonlight like silver tongs reaching out for a low-hanging 
star. 

And they came face to face with the Terror that evening, 
the Terror that had helped the spring breezes and the sunshine 
to plant the Dream in the brain of Big Ivan. 

They were walking down a dark side street when they saw 
a score of men and women creep from the door of a squat, 
unpainted building. The little group remained on the side¬ 
walk for a minute as if uncertain about the way they should 
go, then from the corner of the street came a cry of “ Police! ” 
and the twenty pedestrians ran in different directions. 

It was no false alarm. Mounted police charged down the 
dark thoroughfare swinging their swords as they rode at the 
scurrying men and women who raced for shelter. Big Ivan 
dragged Anna into a doorway, and toward their hiding place 
ran a young boy who, like themselves, had no connection with 
the group and who merely desired to get out of harm’s way 
till the storm was over. 

The boy was not quick enough to escape the charge. A 
trooper pursued him, overtook him before he reached the side¬ 
walk, and knocked him down with a quick stroke given with 
the flat of his blade. His horse struck the boy with one of 
his hoofs as the lad stumbled on his face. 

Big Ivan growled like an angry bear, and sprang from his 
hiding place. The trooper’s horse had carried him on to the 
sidewalk, and Ivan seized the bridle and flung the animal on 
its haunches. The policeman leaned forward to strike at the 
giant, but Ivan of the Bridge gripped the left leg of the horse¬ 
man and tore him from the saddle. 

The horse galloped off, leaving its rider lying beside the 
moaning boy who was unlucky enough to be in a street where 
a score of students were holding a meeting. 

Anna dragged Ivan back into the passageway. More police 
were charging down the street, and their position was a dan¬ 
gerous one. 


THE CITIZEN 


309 

“Ivan!” she cried, “Ivan! Remember the Dream! 
America, Ivan! America! Come this way! Quick! ” 

With strong hands she dragged him down the passage. It 
opened into a narrow lane, and, holding each other’s hands, 
they hurried toward the place where they had taken lodgings. 
From far off came screams and hoarse orders, curses and the 
sound of galloping hoofs. The Terror was abroad. 

Big Ivan spoke softly as they entered the little room they 
had taken. “ He had a face like the boy to whom you gave 
the lucky pot,” he said. “ Did you notice it in the moonlight 
when the trooper struck him down? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ I saw.” 

They left Bobruisk next morning. They rode away on a 
great, puffing, snorting train that terrified Anna. The engineer 
turned a stopcock as they were passing the engine, and Anna 
screamed while Ivan nearly dropped the big trunk. The engi¬ 
neer grinned, but the giant looked up at him and the grin 
faded. Ivan of the Bridge was startled by the rush of hot 
steam, but he was afraid of no man. 

The train went roaring by little villages and great pasture 
stretches. The real journey had begun. They began to love 
the powerful engine. It was eating up the versts at a tre¬ 
mendous rate. They looked at each other from time to time 
and smiled like two children. 

They came to Minsk, the biggest town they had ever seen. 
They looked out from the car windows at the miles of wooden 
buildings, at the big church of St. Catharine, and the woolen 
mills. Minsk would have frightened them if they hadn’t had 
the Dream. The farther they went from the little village on 
the Beresina the more courage the Dream gave to them. 

On and on went the train, the wheels singing the song of the 
road. Fellow travelers asked them where they were going. 
“ To America,” Ivan would answer. 

“ To America? ” they would cry. “ May the little saints 
guide you. It is a long way, and you will be lonely.” 


3io 


AMERICANS ALL 


“ No, we shall not be lonely,” Ivan would say. 

“ Ha! you are going with friends? ” 

“ No, we have no friends, but we have something that keeps 
us from being lonely.” And when Ivan would make that reply 
Anna would pat his hand and the questioner would wonder if 
it was a charm or a holy relic that the bright-eyed couple 
possessed. 

They ran through Vilna, on through flat stretches of Cour- 
land to Libau, where they saw the sea. They sat and stared 
at it for a whole day, talking little but watching it with wide, 
wondering eyes. And they stared at the great ships that came 
rocking in from distant ports, their sides gray with the salt from 
the big combers which they had battled with. 

No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave 
ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like 
the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a pillar 
of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night. 

The harbormaster spoke to Ivan and Anna as they watched 
the restless waters. 

“ Where are you going, children? ” 

“ To America,” answered Ivan. 

“ A long way. Three ships bound for America went down 
last month.” 

“ Our ship will not sink,” said Ivan. 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because I know it will not.” 

The harbor master looked at the strange blue eyes of the 
giant, and spoke softly. “ You have the eyes of a man who 
sees things,” he said. “ There was a Norwegian sailor in 
the White Queen , who had eyes like yours, and he could see 
death.” 

“ I see life! ” said Ivan boldly. “ A free life-” 

“ Hush! ” said the harbor master. “ Do not speak so loud.” 
He walked swiftly away, but he dropped a ruble into Anna’s 
hand as he passed her by. “ For luck,” he murmured. “ May 
the little saints look after you on the big waters.” 



THE CITIZEN 


3 11 

They boarded the ship, and the Dream gave them a courage 
that surprised them. There were others going aboard, and 
Ivan and Anna felt that those others were also persons who 
possessed dreams. She saw the dreams in their eyes. There 
were Slavs, Poles, Letts, Jews, and Livonians, all bound for 
the land where dreams come true. They were a little afraid— 
not two per cent of them had ever seen a ship before—yet their 
dreams gave them courage. 

The emigrant ship was dragged from her pier by a grunting 
tug and went floundering down the Baltic Sea. Night came 
down, and the devils who, according to the Esthonian fisher¬ 
men, live in the bottom of the Baltic, got their shoulders under 
the stern of the ship and tried to stand her on her head. They 
whipped up white combers that sprang on her flanks and tried 
to crush her, and the wind played a devil’s lament in her rig¬ 
ging. Anna lay sick in the stuffy women’s quarters, and Ivan 
could not get near her. But he sent her messages. He told 
her not to mind the sea devils, to think of the Dream, the 
Great Dream that would become real in the land to which 
they were bound. Ivan of the Bridge grew to full stature on 
that first night out from Libau. The battered old craft that 
carried him slouched before the waves that swept over her 
decks, but he was not afraid. Down among the million and 
one smells of the steerage he induced a thin-faced Livonian 
to play upon a mouth organ, and Big Ivan sang Paleer’s “ Song 
of Freedom ” in a voice that drowned the creaking of the old 
vessel’s timbers, and made the seasick ones forget their sick¬ 
ness. They sat up in their berths and joined in the chorus, 
their eyes shining brightly in the half gloom: 

“ Freedom for serf and for slave, 

Freedom for all men who crave 

Their right to be free 

And who hate to bend knee 

But to Him who this right to them gave.” 

It was well that these emigrants had dreams. They wanted 
them. The sea devils chased the lumbering steamer. They 


312 


AMERICANS ALL 


hung to her bows and pulled her for’ard deck under emerald- 
green rollers. They clung to her stern and hoisted her nose 
till Big Ivan thought that he could touch the door of heaven 
by standing on her blunt snout. Miserable, cold, ill, and sleep¬ 
less, the emigrants crouched in their quarters, and to them 
Ivan and the thin-faced Livonian sang the “ Song of Freedom.” 

The emigrant ship pounded through the Cattegat, swung 
southward through the Skagerrack and the bleak North Sea. 
But the storm pursued her. The big waves snarled and bit at 
her, and the captain and the chief officer consulted with each 
other. They decided to run into the Thames, and the harried 
steamer nosed her way in and anchored off Gravesend. 

An examination was made, and the agents decided to trans¬ 
ship the emigrants. They were taken to London and thence 
by train to Liverpool, and Ivan and Anna sat again side by side, 
holding hands and smiling at each other as the third-class emi¬ 
grant train from Euston raced down through the green Midland 
counties to grimy Liverpool. 

“ You are not afraid? ” Ivan would say to her each time she 
looked at him. 

“ It is a long way, but the Dream has given me much cour¬ 
age,” she said. 

“ To-day I spoke to a Lett whose brother works in New 
York City,” said the giant. “ Do you know how much money 
he earns each day? ” 

“How much?” she questioned. 

“ Three rubles, and he calls the policemen by their first 
names.” 

“You will earn five rubles, my Ivan,” she murmured. 
“ There is no one as strong as you.” 

Once again they were herded into the bowels of a big ship 
that steamed away through the fog banks of the Mersey out 
into the Irish Sea. There were more dreamers now, nine hun¬ 
dred of them, and Anna and Ivan were more comfortable. 
And these new emigrants, English, Irish, Scotch, French, and 


THE CITIZEN 


3 i 3 


German, knew much concerning America. Ivan was certain 
that he would earn at least three rubles a day. He was very 
strong. 

On the deck he defeated all comers in a tug of war, and 
the captain of the ship came up to him and felt his muscles. 

“ The country that lets men like you get away from it is 
run badly,” he said. “ Why did you leave it? ” 

The interpreter translated what the captain said, and 
through the interpreter Ivan answered. 

“ I had a Dream,” he said, “ a Dream of freedom.” 

“ Good,” cried the captain. “ Why should a man with mus¬ 
cles like yours have his face ground into the dust? ” 

The soul of Big Ivan grew during those days. He felt him¬ 
self a man, a man who was born upright to speak his thoughts 
without fear. 

The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, and 
Ivan and his nine hundred steerage companions crowded the 
for’ard deck. A boy in a rowboat threw a line to the deck, 
and after it had been fastened to a stanchion he came up hand 
over hand. The emigrants watched him curiously. An old 
woman sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat in a loop 
of the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on deck. 

“ Hey, fellers,” said the boy, “ help me pull me muvver up. 
She wants to sell a few dozen apples, an’ they won’t let her up 
the gangway! ” 

Big Ivan didn’t understand the words, but he guessed what 
the boy wanted. He made one of a half dozen who gripped 
the rope and started to pull the ancient apple woman to the 
deck. 

They had her halfway up the side when an undersized third 
officer discovered what they were doing. He called to a 
steward, and the steward sprang to obey. 

“ Turn a hose on her! ” cried the officer. “ Turn a hose on 
the old woman! ” 

The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it to the side 


AMERICANS ALL 


3 H 

of the ship with the intention of squirting on the old woman, 
who was swinging in midair and exhorting the six men who were 
dragging her to the deck. 

“ Pull! ” she cried. “ Sure, I’ll give every one of ye a rosy 
red apple an’ me blessing with it.” 

The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big Ivan of 
the Bridge let go of the rope and sprang at him. The fist 
of the great Russian went out like a battering ram; it struck 
the steward between the eyes, and he dropped upon the deck. 
He lay like one dead, the muzzle of the hose wriggling from 
his limp hands. 

The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big Ivan, who 
stood erect, his hands clenched. 

“ Ask the big swine why he did it,” roared the officer. 

“Because he is a coward! ” cried Ivan. “They wouldn’t 
do that in America! ” 

“ What does the big brute know about America? ” cried the 
officer. 

“ Tell him I have dreamed of it,” shouted Ivan. “ Tell him 
it is in my Dream. Tell him I will kill him if he turns the 
water on this old woman.” 

The apple seller was on deck then, and with the wisdom of 
the Celt she understood. She put her lean hand upon the 
great head of the Russian and blessed him in Gaelic. Ivan 
bowed before her, then as she offered him a rosy apple he led 
her toward Anna, a great Viking leading a withered old 
woman who walked with the grace of a duchess. 

“ Please don’t touch him,” she cried, turning to the officer. 
“We have been waiting for your ship for six hours, and we 
have only five dozen apples to sell. It’s a great man he is. 
Sure he’s as big as Finn MacCool.” 

Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator and re¬ 
vived him by squirting him with water from the hose which he 
had tried to turn upon the old woman. The third officer 
slipped quietly away. 


THE CITIZEN 


3i5 

The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan and 
Anna. Through sunny days they sat up on deck and watched 
the horizon. They wanted to be among those who would get 
the first glimpse of the wonderland. 

They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft wind. 
Standing together in the bow, they looked at the smear upon 
the horizon, and their eyes filled with tears. They forgot the 
long road to Bobruisk, the rocking journey to Libau, the mad 
buck jumping boat in whose timbers the sea devils of the Baltic 
had bored holes. Everything unpleasant was forgotten, be¬ 
cause the Dream filled them with a great happiness. 

The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in Ivan. 
They walked around him and prodded his muscles, and he 
smiled down upon them good-naturedly. 

“ A fine animal,” said one. “ Gee, he’s a new white hope! 
Ask him can he fight? ” 

An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. “ I have 
fought,” he said. 

“ Gee! ” cried the inspector. “ Ask him was it for purses or 
what? ” 

“ For freedom,” answered Ivan. “ For freedom to stretch 
my legs and straighten my neck! ” 

Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the Bat¬ 
tery. They started to walk uptown, making for the East Side, 
Ivan carrying the big trunk that no other man could lift. 

It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed in warm 
sunshine, and the well-dressed men and women who crowded 
the sidewalks made the two immigrants think that it was a 
festival day. Ivan and Anna stared at each other in amaze¬ 
ment. They had never seen such dresses as those worn by 
the smiling women who passed them by; they had never seen 
such well-groomed men. 

“ It is a feast day for certain,” said Anna. 

“ They are dressed like princes and princesses,” murmured 
Ivan. “ There are no poor here, Anna. None.” 


AMERICANS ALL 


316 

Like two simple children, they walked along the streets of 
the City of Wonder. What a contrast it was to the gray, 
stupid towns where the Terror waited to spring upon the 
cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, Vilna, and Libau the peo¬ 
ple were sullen and afraid. They walked in dread, but in the 
City of Wonder beside the glorious Hudson every person seemed 
happy and contented. 

They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at the 
Wonderful shop windows, the roaring elevated trains, and the 
huge skyscrapers. Hours afterward they found themselves 
in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-third Street, and there the miracle 
happened to the two Russian immigrants. It was a big miracle 
inasmuch as it proved the Dream a truth, a great truth. 

Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but they 
became confused in the snarl of traffic. They dodged backward 
and forward as the stream of automobiles swept by them. Anna 
screamed, and, in response to her scream, a traffic policeman, 
resplendent in a new uniform, rushed to her side. He took the 
arm of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. The charging 
autos halted. For five blocks north and south they jammed on 
the brakes when the unexpected interruption occurred, and 
Big Ivan gasped. 

“ Don’t be flurried, little woman,” said the cop. “ Sure I 
can tame ’em by liftin’ me hand.” 

Anna didn’t understand what he said, but she knew it was 
something nice by the manner in which his Irish eyes smiled 
down upon her. And in front of the waiting automobiles he 
led her with the same care that he would give to a duchess, 
while Ivan, carrying the big trunk, followed them, wondering 
much. Ivan’s mind went back to Bobruisk on the night the 
Terror was abroad. 

The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted Ivan good- 
naturedly upon the shoulder, and then with a sharp whistle 
unloosed the waiting stream of cars that had been held up so 
that two Russian immigrants could cross the avenue. 


THE CITIZEN 


3 i 7 


Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head and 
put it on the ground. He reached out his arms and folded 
Anna in a great embrace. His eyes were wet. 

“The Dream is true! ” he cried. “Did you see, Anna? 
We are as good as they! This is the land where a muzhik is 
as good as a prince of the blood! ” 

The President was nearing the close of his address. Anna 
shook Ivan, and Ivan came out of the trance which the Presi¬ 
dent’s words had brought upon him. He sat up and listened 
intently: 

We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They 
see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire 
of a long winter’s evening. Some of us let those great dreams 
die, but others nourish and protect them, nurse them through 
bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light which 
come always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams 
will come true. 

The President finished. For a moment he stood looking 
down at the faces turned up to him, and Big Ivan of the Bridge 
thought that the President smiled at him. Ivan seized Anna’s 
hand and held it tight. 

“He knew of my Dream! ” he cried. “He knew of it. 
Did you hear what he said about the dreams of a spring day? ” 

“ Of course he knew,” said Anna. “ He is the wisest man 
in America, where there are many wise men. Ivan, you are a 
citizen now.” 

“ And you are a citizen, Anna.” 

The band started to play “ My Country, ’tis of Thee,” and 
Ivan and Anna got to their feet. Standing side by side, hold¬ 
ing hands, they joined in with the others who had found after 
long days of journeying the blessed land where dreams come 
true. 


JAMES FRANCIS DWYER 


Mr. Dwyer is an American by adoption, an Australian by 
birth. He was born in Camden, New South Wales, April 22, 
1874; and received his education in the public schools there. 
He entered newspaper work, and in the capacity of a corre¬ 
spondent for Australian papers traveled extensively in Aus¬ 
tralia and in the South Seas, from 1898 to 1906. In 1906 he 
made a tour through South Africa, and at the conclusion 
of this went to England. He came to America in 1907, and 
since that time has made his home in New York City. He has 
been a frequent contributor to Collier’s, Harper’s Weekly, The 
American Magazine, The Ladies’ Home Journal, and other 
periodicals. He has published five books, nearly all dealing 
with the strange life of the far East. His first book, The 
White Waterfall, published in 1912, has its scene in the South 
Sea Islands. A California scientist, interested in ancient Poly¬ 
nesian skulls, goes to the South Seas to investigate his favorite 
subject, accompanied by his two daughters. The amazing ad¬ 
ventures they meet there make a very interesting story. The 
Spotted Panther is a story of adventure in Borneo. Three 
white men go there in search of a wonderful sword of great 
antiquity which is in the possession of a tribe of Dyaks, 
the head-hunters of Borneo. There are some vivid descriptions 
in the story and plenty of thrills. The Breath of the Jungle 
is a collection of short stories, the scenes laid in the Malay 
Peninsula and nearby islands. They describe the strange life 
of these regions, and show how it reacts in various ways upon 
white men who live there. The Green Half Moon is a story 
of mystery and diplomatic intrigue, the scene partly in the 
Orient, partly in London. 


318 


JAMES FRANCIS DWYER 319 

In his later work Mr. Dwyer has taken up American 
themes. The Bust oj Lincoln, really a short story, deals 
with a young man whose proudest possession is a bust of 
Lincoln that had belonged to his grandfather; the story shows 
how it influences his life. The story The Citizen had an 
interesting origin. On May 10, 1915, just after the sinking of 
the Lusitania , President Wilson went to Philadelphia to address 
a meeting of an unusual kind. Four thousand foreign-born 
men, who had just become naturalized citizens of our country, 
were to be welcomed to citizenship by the Mayor of the city, a 
member of the Cabinet, and the President of the United States. 
The meeting was held in Convention Hall; more than fifteen 
thousand people were present, and the event, occurring as it 
did at a time when every one realized that the loyalty of our 
people was likely to be soon put to the test, was one of historic 
importance. Moved by the significance of this event, Mr. 
Dwyer translated it into literature. His story, “ The Citizen,” 
was published in Collier's in November, 1915. 







LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES 
CLASSIFIED BY LOCALITY 

I. THE EAST 


New England 

A New England Nun; A Humble Romance, Mary Wilkins-Freeman. 
Meadow-Grass; The Country Road, Alice Brown. 

A White Heron; The Queen’s Twin, Sarah Orne Jewett. 

Pratt Portraits; Later Pratt Portraits, Anna Fuller. 

The Village Watch Tower, Kate Douglas Wiggin. 

The Old Home House, Joseph C. Lincoln. 

Hillsboro People, Dorothy Canfield. 

Out of Gloucester; The Crested Seas, James B. Connolly. 

Under the Crust, Thomas Nelson Page. 

Dumb Foxglove, Annie T. Slosson. 

Huckleberries Gathered From New England Hills, Rose Terry 
Cooke. 


New York City 

The Four Million; The Voice of the City; The Trimmed Lamp, 
O. Henry. 

Van Bibber and Others, Richard Harding Davis. 

Doctor Rast, James Oppenheim. 

Toomey and Others, Robert Shackleton. 

Vignettes of Manhattan, Brander Matthews. 

The Imported Bridegroom, Abraham Cahan. 

Little Citizens; Little Aliens, Myra Kelly. 

The Soul of the Street, Norman Duncan. 

Wall Street Stories, Edwin Le Fevre. 

The Optimist, Susan Faber. 

Every Soul Hath Its Song, Fannie Hurst. 


New Jersey 

Hulgate of Mogador, Sewell Ford. 
Edgewater People, Mary Wilkins-Freeman. 

321 


322 


LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES 


Pennsylvania 

Old Chester Tales; Doctor Lavender’s People, Margaret Deland. 
Betrothal of Elypholate, Helen R. Martin. 

The Passing of Thomas, Thomas A. Janvier. 

The Standard Bearers, Katherine Mayo. 

Six Stars, Nelson Lloyd. 

II. THE SOUTH 

Alabama 

Alabama Sketches, Samuel Minturn Peck. 

Polished Ebony, Octavius R. Cohen. 

Arkansas 

Otto the Knight; Knitters in the Sun, Octave Thanet. 

Florida 

Rodman the Keeper, Constance F. Woolson. 


Georgia 

Georgia Scenes, A. B. Longstreet. 

Free Joe; Tates of the Home-Folks, Joel Chandler Harris. 

Stories of the Cherokee Hills, Maurice Thompson. 

Northern Georgia Sketches, Will N. Harben. 

His Defence, Harry Stilwell Edwards. 

Mr. Absalom Billingslea; Mr. Billy Downes, Richard Malcolm 
Johnston. 


Kentucky 


Flute and Violin; A Kentucky Cardinal, James Lane Allen. 

In Happy Valley, John Fox, Jr. 

Back Home; Judge Priest and his People, Irvin S. Cobb. 
Ixmd of Long Ago; Aunt Jane of Kentucky, Eliza Calvert Hall. 


Louisiana 

Holly and Pisen; 'Aunt Amity’s Silver Wedding, Ruth McEnery 
Stuart. 

Balcony Stories; Tates of Time and Place, Grace King. 

Old Creole Days; Strange True Stories of Louisiana, George W. 
Cable. 

Bayou Folks, Kate Chopin. 


LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES 


323 


Tennessee 

In the Tennessee Mountains; Prophet of the Great Smoky Moun¬ 
tains, Charles Egbert Craddock. (Mary N. Murfree.) 

Virginia 

In Ole Virginia, Thomas Nelson Page. 

Virginia of Virginia, Amelie Rives. 

Colonel Carter of Cartersville, F. Hopkinson Smith. 

North Carolina 

North Carolina Sketches, Mary N. Carter. 

III. THE MIDDLE WEST 
Indiana 

Dialect Sketches, James Whitcomb Riley. 

Illinois 

The Home Builders, K. E. Harriman. 

Iowa 

Stories of a Western Tozvn; The Missionary Sheriff, Octave Thanet. 
In a Little Town, Rupert Hughes. 

Kansas 

In Our Town; Stratagems and Spoils, William Allen White. 

* Missouri 

The Man at the Wheel, John Hanton Carter. 

Stories of a Country Doctor, Willis King. 

Michigan 

Biased Trail Stories, Stewart Edward White. 

Mackinac and Lake Stories, Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

Ohio 

Folks Back Home, Eugene Wood. 

Wisconsin 

Main-Travelled Roads, Hamlin Garland. 

Friendship Village; Friendship Village Love Stories, Zona Gale. 


324 


LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES 

IV. THE FAR WEST 


Arizona 

Lost Borders, Mary Austin. 

Arizona Nights, Stewart Edward White. 

Alaska 

Love of Life; Son of the Wolf, Jack London. 

California 

The Cat and the Cherub, Chester B. Femald. 

The Luck of Roaring Camp; Tales of the Argonauts, Bret Harte. 
The Splendid Idle Forties, Gertrude Atherton. 

New Mexico 

The King of the Broncos, Charles F. Lummis. 

Santa Fe’s Partner, Thomas A. Janvier. 

Wyoming 

Red Men and White; The Virginian; Members of the Family, Owen 
Wister. 

Teepee Tales, Grace Coolidge. 

Philippine Islands 
Caybigan, James N. Hopper. 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 


THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE 


In Greek mythology, the work of creating living things was en¬ 
trusted to two of the gods, Epimetheus and Prometheus. Epi- 
metheus gave to the different animals various powers, to the lion 
strength, to the bird swiftness, to the fox sagacity, and so on until 
all the good gifts had been bestowed, and there was nothing left for 
man. Then Prometheus ascended to heaven and brought down fire, 
as his gift to man. With this, man could protect himself, could 
forge iron to make weapons, and so in time develop the arts of 
civilization. In this story the “ Promethean Fire ” of love is the 
means of giving little Emmy Lou her first lesson in reading. 

1. A test that may be applied to any story is, Does it read as if it 

were true? Would the persons in the story do the things they 
are represented as doing? Test the acts of Billy Traver in 
this way, and see if they are probable. 

2. In writing stories about children, a writer must have the power 

to present life as a child sees it. Point out places in this story 
where school life is described as it appears to a new pupil. 

3. One thing we ought to gain from our reading is a larger vocabu¬ 

lary. In this story there are a number of words worth adding 
to our stock. Define these exactly: inquisitorial; lachrymose; 
laconic; surreptitious; contumely. 

Get the habit of looking up new words and writing down 
their meanings. 

4. Can you w'rite a story about a school experience? 

5. Other books containing stories of school life are: 

Little Aliens, Myra Kelly; May Iverson Tackles Life, Eliza¬ 
beth Jordan; Ten to Seventeen, Josephine Daskam Bacon; 
Closed Doors, Margaret P. Montague. Read a story from one 
of these books, and compare it with this story. 


THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE 


Central Park, New York, covers an era of more than eight hun¬ 
dred acres, with a zoo and several small lakes. On one of the lakes 
there are large boats with a huge wooden swan on each side. 
Richard Harding Davis located one of his stories here: See “Van 




326 NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 

Bibber and the Swan Boats,” in the volume called Van Bibber and 
Others. 

1. How is this story like the preceding one? What difference in 

the characters? What difference in their homes? 

2. How does Myra Kelly make you feel sympathy for the little 

folks? In what ways have their lives been less fortunate than 
the lives of children in your town? 

3 . What is peculiar about the talk of these children? Do they all 

speak the same dialect? Many of the children of the East Side 
never hear English spoken at home. 

4. What touches of humor are there in this story? 

5. What new words do you find? Define garrulous, pedagogically, 

cicerone. 

6. Where did Miss Kelly get her materials for this story? See the 

life on page 37. 

7. What other stories by this author have you read? This is from 

Little Citizens; other books telling about the same characters 
are Little Aliens, and Wards of Liberty. 

8. Other books of short stories dealing with children are: Whilom- 

ville Stories, by Stephen Crane; The Golden Age, by Kenneth 
Grahame; The Madness of Philip, by Josephine Daskam 
Bacon; The King of Boyville, by William Allen White; New 
Chronicles of Rebecca, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Read one of 
these, and compare it with Myra Kelly’s story. 

THE TENOR 

1. Point out the humorous touches in this story. 

2. Is the story probable? To answer this, consider two points: 

would Louise have undertaken such a thing as answering the 
advertisement? and would she have had the spirit to act as she 
did at the close? Note the touches of description and char¬ 
acterization of Louise, and show how they prepare for the 
events that follow. 

3. One of the most effective devices in art is the use of contrast; 

that is, bringing together two things or persons or ideas that 
are very different, perhaps the exact opposite of each other. 
Show that the main effect of this story depends on the use of 
contrast. 

4. Read the paragraph on page 43 beginning, “ It happened to be a 

French tenor.” Give in your own words the thought of this, 
paragraph. Is it true? Can you give examples of it? 


CO M 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 327 

5 . Compare the length of this story with that of others in the book. 

Which authors get their effects in a small compass? Could 
any parts of this story be omitted? 

6. Other stories by H. C. Bunner that you will enjoy are “The 

Love Letters of Smith” and “A Sisterly Scheme” in Short 
Sixes . 

THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP 

1. Does the title fit the story well? Why? 

2. Notice the familiar, almost conversational style. Is it suited to 

the story ? Why ? 

3. Show how the opening paragraph introduces the main idea of the 

story. 

4. To make a story there must be a conflict of some sort. What is 

the conflict here? 

5. How does the account of Julia Neal’s career as a teacher 

(page 64) prepare for the ending of the story? 

6. Do you have a clear picture in your mind of Mrs. Winthrop? 

Of Mrs. Worthington? Why did not the author tell about 
their personal appearance? 

. Point out humorous touches in the next to the last paragraph. 

. Is this story true to life? Who is the Priscilla Winthrop of 
your town? 

9 . What impression do you get of the man behind this story? Do 

you think he knew the people of his town well? Did he like 
them even while he laughed at them? What else can you say 
about him? 

10. Other books of short stories dealing with life in a small town 
. are: Pratt Portraits, by Anna Fuller; Old Chester Tales, by 

Margaret Deland; Stories of a Western Town, by Octave 
Thanet; In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes; Folks Back 
Home, by Eugene Wood; Friendship Village, by Zona Gale; 
Bodbank, by Richard W. Child. Read one of these books, or a 
story from one, and compare it with this story. 

11. In what ways does life in a small town differ from life in a 

large city? 

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 

This story, taken from the volume called The Four Million, is a 
good example of O. Henry’s method as a short-story writer. It 
is notable for its brevity. The average length of the modern short 


328 NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 

story is about five thousand words; O. Henry uses a little over one 
thousand words. This conciseness is gained in several ways. In 
his descriptions, he has the art of selecting significant detail. When 
Della looks out of the window, instead of describing fully the view 
that met her eyes, he says: “ She looked out dully at a grey cat 
walking a grey fence in a grey backyard.” A paragraph could do 
no more. Again, the beginning of the story is quick, abrupt. There 
is no introduction. The style is often elliptical; in the first para¬ 
graph half the sentences are not sentences at all. But the main 
reason for the shortness of the story lies in the fact that the author 
has included only such incidents and details as are necessary to the 
unfolding of the plot. There is no superfluous matter. 

Another characteristic of O. Henry is found in the unexpected 
turns of his plots. There is almost always a surprise in his stories, 
usually at the end. And yet this has been so artfully prepared for 
that we accept it as probable. Our pleasure in reading his stories is 
further heightened by the constant flashes of humor that light up 
his pages. And beyond this, he has the power to touch deeper 
emotions. When Della heard Jim’s step on the stairs, “ she turned 
white just for a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent 
prayers about the simplest things, and now she whispered, ‘ Please 
God, make him think I am still pretty.’ ” One reads that with a 
little catch in the throat. 

In his plots, O. Henry is romantic; in his settings he is a realist. 
Della and Jim are romantic lovers, they are not prudent nor calcu¬ 
lating, but act upon impulse. In his descriptions, however, he is a 
realist. The eight-dollar-a-week flat, the frying pan on the back of 
the stove, the description of Della “ flopping down on the couch for 
a cry,” and afterwards “ attending to her cheeks with the powder- 
rag,”—all these are in the manner of realism. 

And finally, the tone of his stories is brave and cheerful. He 
finds the world a most interesting place, and its people, even its 
commonplace people, its rogues, its adventurers, are drawn with a 
broad sympathy that makes us more tolerant of the people we meet 
outside the books. 

1. Compare the beginning of this story with the beginning of 

“ Bitter-Sweet.” What difference do you note? 

2. Select a description of a person that shows the author’s power 

of concise portraiture. 

3. What is the turn of surprise in this story? What other stories 

in this book have a similar twist at the end? 

4. What is the central thought of this story? 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 329 

5. Other stories of O. Henry’s that ought not to be missed are 
“An Unfinished Story” and “The Furnished Room” in The 
Four Million; “A Blackjack Bargainer” in Whirligigs; “Best 
Seller” and “The Rose of Dixie” in Options; “A Municipal 
Report” in Strictly Business; “A Retrieved Reformation” in 
Roads of Destiny; and “ Hearts and Crosses ” in Hearts of the 
West. 


THE GOLD BRICK 

This story, first published in the American Magazine, was re¬ 
printed in a volume called The Gold Brick, published in 1910. The 
quotation “ chip at crusts like Hindus ” is from Robert Browning’s 
poem “Youth and Art.” The reference to “Old Walt” at the end 
of the story is to Walt Whitman, one of the great poets of 
democracy. 

1. To make a story interesting, there must be a conflict. In this 

the conflict is double: the outer conflict, between the two 
political factions, and the inner conflict, in the soul of the 
artist. Note how skilfully this inner struggle is introduced: 
at the moment when Kittrell is first rejoicing over his new 
position, he feels a pang at leaving the Post, and what it 
stood for. This feeling is deepened by his wife’s tacit dis¬ 
approval ; it grows stronger as the campaign progresses, until 
the climax is reached in the scene where he resigns his 
position. 

2. If you knew nothing about the author, what could you infer 

from this story about his political ideals? Did he believe in 
democracy? Did he have faith in the good sense of the com¬ 
mon people? Did he think it was worth while to make sacri¬ 
fices for them? What is your evidence for this? 

3 . How far is this story true to life, as you know it? Do any 

newspapers in your city correspond to the Post? To the 
Telegraph? Can you recall a campaign in which the contest 
was between two such groups as are described here? 

4. Does Whitlock have the art of making his characters real? Is 

this true of the minor characters? The girl in the flower shop, 
for instance, who appears but for a moment,—is she individual¬ 
ized? How? 

5. Is there a lesson in this story? State it in your own words. 

6. What experiences in Whitlock’s life gave him the background 

for this story? 


330 NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 

7 . What new words did you gain from this? Define meritricious; 

prognathic; banal; vulpine; camaraderie ; vilification ; ennui; 
quixotic; naive; pharisaism. What can you say of Whitlock’s 
vocabulary? 

8. Other good stories dealing with politics are found in Stratagems 

and Spoils, by William Allen White. 

HIS MOTHER’S SON 

1. Note the quick beginning of the story; no introduction, action 

from the start Why is this suitable to this story? 

2. Why is slang used so frequently? 

3. Point out examples of humor in the story. 

4. In your writing, do you ever have trouble in finding just the right 

word ? Note on page 123 how Edna Ferber tries one expression 
after another, and how on page 122 she finally coins a word— 
“unadjectivable.” What does the word mean? 

5. Do you have a clear picture of Emma McChesney? Of Ed 

Meyers? Note that the description of Meyers in the office is 
not given all at once, but a touch here and then. Point out 
all these bits of description of this person, and note how com¬ 
plete the portrait is. 

6. What have you learned in this story about the life of a travel¬ 
ing salesman? 

7. What qualities must a good salesman possess? 

8 . Was Emma McChesney a lady? Was Ed Meyers a gentleman? 

Why do you think so? 

9. This story is taken from the book called Roast Beef, Medium. 

Other good books of short stories by this author are Per¬ 
sonality Plus, and Cheerful — by Request. 

BITTER-SWEET 

1. Note the introduction, a characteristic of all of Fannie Hurst’s 

stories. What purpose does it serve here? What trait of 
Gertie’s is brought out? Is this important to the story? 

2. From the paragraph on page 139 beginning “ It was into the 

trickle of the last-” select examples that show the author’s 

skill in the use of words. What other instances of this do you 
note in the story? 

3. Read the sketch of the author. What episode in her life gave 

her material for parts of this story? 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 331 

4. Notice how skillfully the conversation is handled. The opening 

situation developes itself entirely through dialogue, yet in a per¬ 
fectly natural way. It is almost like a play rather than a 
story. If it were dramatized, how many scenes would it make? 

5. What does the title mean? Does the author give us the key to 

its meaning? 

6. What do you think of Gertie as you read the first part of the 

conversation in the restaurant? Does your opinion of her 
change at the end of the story? Has her character changed? 

7. Is the ending of the story artistic? Why mention the time- 

clock? What had Gertie said about it? 

8. State in three or four words the central idea of the story. Is 

it true to life? 

9 . What is the meaning of these words : atavism; penumbra; sema¬ 

phore ; astigmatic; insouciance; mise-en-scene; kinetic? 

10. Other books of stories dealing with life in New York City are 

The Four Million, and The Voice of the City, by O. Henry; 
Van Bibber and Others, by Richard Harding Davis; Every 
Soul Hath Its Song, by Fannie Hurst; Doctor Rast, by James 
Oppenheim. 

THE RIVERMAN 

1. In how many scenes is this story told? What is the connection 

between them ? 

2. Is there anything in the first description of Dicky Darrell that 

gives you a slight prejudice against him? 

3. Why was the sympathy of the crowd with Jimmy Powers in the 

birling match? 

4. Comment on Jimmy’s remark at the end of the story. Did he 

mean it, or is he just trying to turn away the praise? 

5. What are the characteristics of a lumberman, as seen in Jimmy 

Powers ? 

6. Read the sketch of Stewart Edward White, and decide which one 

of his books you would like to read. 

FLINT AND FIRE 

1 . What does the title mean? 

2. How does the author strike the keynote of the story in the 

opening paragraph ? 

3. Where is the first hint of the real theme of the story? 

4. Point out some of the dialect expressions. Why is dialect used? 


332 NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 

5. What turn of surprise comes at the end of the story? Is it 

probable ? 

6. What characteristics of New England country people are brought 

out in this story? How does the author contrast them with 
“ city people ” ? 

7. Does this story read as if the author knew the scenes she de¬ 

scribes? Read the description of Niram plowing (page 191), 
and point out touches in it that could not have been written 
by one who had always lived in the city. 

8. Read the account of how this story was written, (page 210). 

What first suggested the idea? What work remained after the 
story was first written? How did the author feel while writ¬ 
ing it? Compare what William Allen White says about his 
work, (page 75). 

9. Other stories of New England life that you will enjoy reading 

are found in the following books: New England Nun, Mary 
E. Wilkins; Cape Cod Folks, S. P. McLean Greene; Pratt 
Portraits, Anna Fuller; The Country Road, Alice Brown; 
Tales of New England, Sarah Orne Jewett. 

THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE 

1. This story contains three characters who are typical of many 

colored people, and as such are worth study. Howard Dokes- 
bury is the educated colored man of the North. What are 
the chief traits of this character? 

2. Aunt Caroline is the old-fashioned darky who suggests slavery 

days. What are her chief characteristics? 

3 . ’Lias is the new generation of the Southern negro of the towns. 

What are his characteristics? 

4. Is the colored American given the same rights as others? Read 

carefully the opening paragraph of the story. 

5. What were the weaknesses of the colored people of Mt. Hope? 

How far are they true of the race? How were they overcome 
in this case? 

6. There are two theories about the proper solution of what is 

called “ The Negro Problem.” One is, that the hope of the 
race lies in industrial training; the other theory, that they 
should have higher intellectual training, so as to develope 
great leaders. Which theory do you think Dunbar held? Why 
do you think so? 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 333 

7. Other stories dealing with the life of the colored people are: 
Free Joe, and Tales of the Home Folks, by Joel Chandler 
Harris; Polished Ebony, by Octavius R. Cohen; Aunt Amity’s 
Silver Wedding, by Ruth McEnery Stuart; In Ole Virginia, by 
Thomas Nelson Page. 


ISRAEL DRAKE 

The Pennsylvania State Police have made a wonderful record for 
maintaining law and order in the rural sections of the state. The 
history of this organization was told by Katherine Mayo in a book 
called Justice to All. In a later book, The Standard Bearers, she 
tells various incidents which show how these men do their work. 
The book is not fiction—the story here told happened just as it is 
set down, even the names of the troopers are their real names. 

1. Do you get a clear picture of Drake from the description? Why 

are several pages given to telling his past career? 

2. Where does the real story begin? 

3. Who was the tramp at the Carlisle Station ? When did you guess 

it? 

4. What are the principles of the State Police, as you see them in 

this story? 

5. Why was such an organization necessary? Is there one in your 

state ? 

6. What new words did you find in this story? Define aura, 

primeval, grisly. 


THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF ISIDRO 

In this story the author introduces a number of unfamiliar words, 
chiefly of Spanish origin^ which are current in the Philippines. The 
meanings are given below. 

baguio, hurricane. 
barrio, ward; district. 

carabao, a kind of buffalo, used as a work animal. 

cabo, head officer. 

cibay, a boys’ game. 

daledale, hurry up! 

de los Reyes, of the King. 

de la Cruz, of the cross. 

hacienda, a large plantation. 


334 NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 

ladrones, robbers. 
maestro, teacher. 

nip a, a palm tree or the thatch made from it. 
palay, rice. 
pronto, quickly. 
peublo, town. 

que barbaridad !—what an atrocious thing! 
volador, kite. 

1. Why does the story end with Isidro’s crying? What did this 

signify? What is the relation of this to the beginning of the 
story ? 

2. Has this story a central idea? What is it? 

3. This might be called a story of local color, in that it gives in 

some detail the atmosphere of an unfamiliar locality. What are 
the best descriptive passages in the story? 

4. Judging from this story, what are some of the difficulties a school 

teacher meets with in the Philippines? What must he be be¬ 
sides a teacher? 

5. What other school stories are there in this book? The pupils in 

Emmy Lou’s school, (in Louisville, Ky.) are those with several 
generations of American ancestry behind them; in Myra Kelly’s 
story, they are the children of foreign parents; in this story 
they are still in a foreign land—that is, a land where they are 
not surrounded by American influences. The public school is 
the one experience that is common to them all, and therefore 
the greatest single force in bringing them all to share in a 
common ideal, to reverence the great men of our country’s 
history, and to comprehend the meaning of democracy. How 
does it do these things? 

THE CITIZEN 

1. During the war, President Wilson delivered an address at Phila¬ 

delphia to an audience of men who had just been made citizens. 
The quoted passages in this story are taken from this speech. 
Read these passages, and select the one which probably gave the 
author the idea for this story. 

2. Starting with the idea, that he would write a story about some¬ 

one who followed a dream to America, why should the author 
choose Russia as the country of departure? 

3. Having chosen Russia, why does he make Ivan a resident of a 

village far in the interior? Why not at Libau? 


NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY 335 

4. Two incidents are told as occurring on the journey: the charge 

of the police at Bobrinsk, and the coming on board of the 
apple woman at Queenstown. Why was each of these intro¬ 
duced? What is the purpose of telling the incident on Fifth 
Avenue ? 

5. What have you learned about the manner in which this story 

was written? Compare it with the account given by Dorothy 
Canfield as to how she wrote her story. 

6. What is the main idea in this story? Why do you think it was 

written? Edward Everett Hale wrote a story called “A Man 
without a Country.” Suggest another title for “ The Citizen.” 

7. Has this story in any way changed your opinion of immigrants? 

Is Big Ivan likely to meet any treatment in America that will 
change his opinion of the country? 

8. The part of this story that deals with Russia affords a good 

example of the use of local color. This is given partly through 
the descriptions, partly through the names of the villagers— 
Poborino, Yanansk, Dankov; partly through the Russian words, 
such as verst (about three quarters of a mile), ruble (a coin 
worth fifty cents), kopeck (a half cent), muzhik, (a peasant). 
How is local color given in the conversations? 

9 . For a treatment of the theme of this story in poetry, read “ Scum 

o’ the Earth,” by Robert Haven Schauffler, in Rittenhouse’s 
Little Book of Modern Verse. This is the closing stanza: 

“ Newcomers all from the eastern seas, 

Help us incarnate dreams like these. 

Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. 

Help us to father a nation, strong 
In the comradeship of an equal birth, 

In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth.” 


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